“Now he is trapped,” gray-fur said, pointing a clawed finger. “They’ve cut him off.”
Over a dozen wolf-men had ignored chasing after Dieredon, instead racing past so they might curl around, forming a wall of fur to prevent him from reaching the ravine’s exit. Dieredon raced toward them anyway, as if he might challenge them, but at the last moment he slid to a halt, turned, and vaulted to the side. He struck the opposite cliff face, scrambling upward with amazing dexterity. A few wolf-men picked up speed and leapt, slamming gracelessly into the rock and clawing wildly. They shredded the edges of the elf’s cloak, but did little else. Still, Jessilynn could see hundreds of the beasts racing out of the ravine and curling back around, scaling the slope to wait for Dieredon should he reach the top. Below him were hundreds more, howling and yipping at him, eager to feast the moment he fell.
Jessilynn saw him slip, and from a single hand he hung above the maw of snapping teeth. She let out a cry, and it earned her the attention of her captor.
“You care for him?” the wolf-man asked. “You amuse me, human. Watch him die. Cry for him. I love seeing humans weak.”
Dieredon had regained his balance, climbing halfway up the cliff. Jessilynn felt a lump in her throat, knowing there was nowhere for him to go. He was just delaying the inevitable. He slipped again, and she saw his movements lacking grace when compared to his initial descent. He had to be wounded, she knew, though she could only guess how badly from such a great distance.
Let him die from the fall, she prayed. Spare him the pain of their teeth.
Dieredon let go of the rock, and crying out, she watched him plummet. He turned in the air, legs downward, and then swooping in from the sky came Sonowin. Dieredon landed atop her, rolled to one side, and then grabbed her mane with a hand to steady himself. Tears were in Jessilynn’s eyes as he flew away. At least he lived. At least someone would know her fate.
Gray-hair growled, his teeth so close to her face.
“Stubborn elves,” he said, tossing Jessilynn to the ground. The twenty gathered round, flexing their claws, their tongues drooling.
“We should eat her now,” said one. “There’s not enough for us as is. The rest will try to take her.”
“No,” the gray-haired one snarled. “We are late, and the kings might be angry. Let her be a gift. They cannot be angry if we give them human-flesh to eat.”
“Our presence is a gift!” one of the bigger wolf-men snarled back. He turned his yellow eyes on Jessilynn, licking the sides of his long snout with his tongue. Gray-hair roared, stepping between him and Jessilynn.
“A gift,” the wolf-man said. “Or we shall feast on you instead.”
The younger wolf-man bowed his head and flattened his ears.
“If you say, then so be it.”
The gray-haired one turned and wrapped his enormous paw around her neck. His eyes were all she saw as he lowered himself to her height.
“Walk,” he ordered.
She did so, flanked by the pack. The thundering of her heart and quickness of her breathing gave the entire world a flat, glassy look. Unreal, she thought, it was all unreal. Like a bad dream. Part of her wished it was, but her senses were overloaded, giving things a clarity no nightmare could ever possess. Down the ravine they walked as high above she saw Sonowin circling. When the winged horse began to lower, she dared hope he’d rescue her. It seemed gray-hair saw as well, and he snarled up at the sky.
“Come for your pet?” he asked. Reaching out, he grabbed Jessilynn by the throat. The paw closed so tightly she could not breathe, and frantically she clutched at his claws as he lifted her into the air, as if offering her to Dieredon. His other paw tightened against her chest, thick claws easily punching through her armor. With blurred vision she looked up to the stars, saw Sonowin lift back up into the air. Her last bit of hope died, and she knew, absolutely knew her time had ended.
“Such cowardice,” the wolf-man snarled, and he set her down. Gasping for air, she fell to her knees, only to find herself yanked back to her feet.
“Walk,” the gray-hair said. “The kings will prefer the kill to be their own, but I will present your warm dead body if I must.”
Jessilynn coughed so hard she vomited, the bile dribbling down her throat, yet still she struggled to her feet. One foot after the other, she thought, beginning her descent down the outside of the ravine, following the pack as they curled her around to the entrance. She tried praying to Ashhur, but her mind was white with terror. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t form words. All around her were yellow eyes, and there was no disguising their hunger. Into the camp she went, and now there were thousands of them, howling and growling. The sound was deafening, and without even realizing it she began to cry.
I’m sorry, she pleaded to her god, though she didn’t know why. She felt an overwhelming sense of failure, and though it made no sense, she could not help it. I’m sorry, so sorry. Please, forgive me.
They stopped at the great pile of bones where Dieredon had hoped to overhear the meeting. Now so close, she saw the age of the bones, many chalk-white and meticulously clean. Others were red with blood, bits of meat still clinging to them. Overpowering was the smell of sweat from the beasts, and their breath was tinged with the scent of blood. She tried not to gag, but her stomach was already weak. To her knees the gray-hair flung her, slamming her atop the bone pile. The bones scattered beneath her, clattering.
Think, she told herself. She knew the prayers she was supposed to pray if she thought herself approaching death. All the comforts of the Golden Eternity, the promises of Ashhur and his angels, she tried to think on them, to face death with the stubbornness and comfort that Jerico had when he’d been captured by the enemy. But all she felt was an aching desire to be anywhere other than where she was, to walk backward in time, to when Dieredon was first climbing down the cliff, and make him stay, make him fly her out of there, out of the Wedge and to the safety of the Citadel.
But instead the wolf-men howled, the sound piercing her ears and overwhelming any rational thought. Sobbing on the bones, she curled her head, closed her eyes, and waited for death.
The howling lessened as she heard movement upon the bones.
“A gift, great kings,” the gray-hair said from behind her. “She was with the elf when we arrived, aiding him with a rope.”
This was it. Her whole body tensed. A massive paw reached down, and she waited for it to rip open her throat. Instead it grabbed hold of her armor and lifted her upward. Determined to show some shred of dignity, she opened her eyes and looked upon her killer.
There was not one wolf-man there, but two. Both were enormous, seemingly towering over the others. They peered at her, and the intelligence in their eyes was all the more frightening. Both were solid black but for their paws, which were a deep red. The only difference she saw was that one had two circles of white in the center of his face, highlighting his yellow eyes.
“Your armor,” the one holding her asked, lifting her higher. “What does it mean?”
The question made no sense to her. What did her armor mean? Could the wolves truly recognize the style of her armor, the meaning of the various symbols?
“A paladin,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m a paladin.”
The two wolf-men shared a look as the rest of the pack howled for blood.
“Like him,” one said to the other. “Like the one who humiliated father.”
“And that is why she must live,” an elderly female said, stepping to the edge of the bone pile. Her back was bent low, and white hair marked her ears. “There is much she will know. That knowledge will benefit us all.”
“Take her, then,” said the wolf-man holding her. With ease he flung her to the female’s feet. “Her meat is little, and I will not taste the flesh of man until we are free.” He turned to the crowd, his voice roaring throughout the entire ravine.
“Until we are all free!”
Others of the beasts nipped at Jessilynn, but the two
wolf-men on the pile bared their fangs, ushering them back. The old female knelt down before her and grabbed her arm. Her watery eyes looked her over with a wisdom that seemed far beyond what Jessilynn thought possible. When she spoke, there was no compassion in her voice.
“Follow me, before you become their meal.”
With no other choice, Jessilynn obeyed.
17
The village elders gathered, though elder was a misleading term. Many were young and fiery of temper, though the presence of the angel host did much to still their tongues. Qurrah watched them assemble into the great auditorium at the very rear of the castle, seldom used but recently cleaned to accommodate the meeting. He stayed at the door, not allowed to enter.
“Strange that I would be denied entrance,” Qurrah said to Kevin Maryll, who stood beside him, greeting the various men as they came to take their seat. More than sixty attended, each representing the village they came from. The procession had slowed to a trickle, but still Kevin waited in case more might arrive.
“Your reputation is well known,” Kevin said, glancing at him. “But tell me, which village do you represent? Oh, that is right, you live in Ker now. The angels have no sway over you.”
“Observing is not the same as speaking, or casting a vote,” Qurrah said, already disliking the man.
“Not true,” Kevin said. “Your very presence would change things. You’re a reminder of a different time, and a threat that no longer exists. We can’t be lost in the past. Now’s the future, and it’s that future I must protect.”
He fixed his tunic, which was made of some of the finest material Qurrah had ever seen, then adjusted the short cape around his neck.
“What do you hope to accomplish?” Qurrah asked him as he straightened his hair. “Do you think the angels will suddenly change their minds and bow to this rabble you’ve assembled?”
“You’re just like your brother,” Kevin said, licking his fingers and making a second attempt at his hair. “You hold these winged men in far too high regard. They’re fallible, and more importantly, they must follow laws and customs just like us. They know this. They believe themselves to represent everything good and just. They say they always know the truth when they hear it. And you know what?”
He flashed Qurrah a smile.
“I think they’re right.”
Kevin stepped into the auditorium, and from within two angels on guard pushed the iron doors shut. Qurrah shook his head, wishing he could have met Kevin many years ago, when ripping the tongue out of a living man might not have put such a weight on his conscience. Being barred from listening to the complaints of the people was ridiculous. Worse, Kevin had somehow finagled it so that Harruq was banned as well. ‘Just the people and the angels,’ Kevin had claimed, though Qurrah sensed the weaseling desires behind it.
Still, sneaking into a meeting he’d been banned from was far, far less a burden on Qurrah’s conscience than tongue mutilation. Turning about, he hurried to a nearby door, which led to a closet used by servants. Within were various stored tools, plus a great stack of clean linens. More importantly, the closet shared a wall with the auditorium. Sitting down beside that wall, he put his fingers against the stone and began to cast a spell. A thin tendril of shadow stretched out from his palm, then began to twirl. It dug through the stone with an unnatural silence. When it popped through, light poured into the dark closet. A quick check showed he could see the rows of angels, all circled around the far fewer number of representatives come to speak for the common man.
Dismissing the spell, Qurrah lowered his head, pressed his ear to the hole, and listened.
Tessanna lay in their bed, waiting for Qurrah’s return. She’d tried playing with Aubrienna, but all the while she felt Aurelia watching her. There was no malice in it, no real anger. But the mistrust was there, however faint, and it made Tessanna sick because she knew it was well-deserved. Wishing her lover could be with her, she lay there, eyes closed, feeling hours pass over her in a steady, uninterrupted flow.
When the door opened, she sat up, smiling.
“You’re back,” she said. The smile on her face immediately vanished. Qurrah looked in a hurry, and he rushed to the chest where their things were stored.
“We must leave,” he said, throwing it open. “Gather whatever you wish to bring with you, and if you have any goodbyes, go say them now.”
Tessanna’s mouth dropped open.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I said hurry!” Qurrah snapped. He immediately turned back to what he was doing. Tessanna stood up from the bed, walked over to Qurrah, and then wrapped her hands around him to force him to calm down. When he looked up at her, he kissed her lips, then let out a sigh.
“Forgive me,” he said. “But time is not our friend right now.”
“Tell me first,” she said. “I will not flee the castle like a burglar, no matter what has happened. Now answer me.”
“It was the meeting,” he said. “The people, they spoke their demands to the angels, and it was all the same. They explained it in different ways, disguised their real demands with impractical ideas, but deep down they wanted the same thing.”
He looked up at her, and she saw the fear in her lover’s eyes.
“They want death,” he said. “They want death, and I think the angels are going to give it to them.”
“That’s nonsense,” Tess said as Qurrah resumed packing his things. She stood over him, watching. “The angels aren’t murderers. And what do you mean they want death?”
“Sinners punished,” Qurrah said. “Not forgiven. Not remedied. Punished. Killed. Hung. Beheaded. Am I making sense now?”
“Stop it,” she said. “Stop snapping at me.”
“I’m sorry.”
He turned around, sitting with his back against the open chest. With his left hand he rubbed his forehead, as if suffering a headache.
“It’s not that they made the demands,” he said. “I understand their frustration. That wasn’t it. That’s not why we must leave. It was the angels. They were agreeing with them. I saw them listening, nodding. They looked too eager to please, too eager to abandon what Ahaesarus kept trying to defend. It’s like there’s a sickness here, Tess. I can’t find it, but I smell the scent of disease.”
She sat in silence as he finished bundling the last of his things, then stood.
“They mentioned my name,” he said, slamming the chest shut. “I won’t repeat what they said, but I assure you, it’s a sign our time here is over. They angels are flying back to Avlimar. I want us gone long before they return.”
“Whatever you say,” Tessanna said. She thought of leaving Aubrienna, of not seeing her for several more years, and felt her heart crack. Still, she would not live without her lover. If Qurrah was leaving, then so was she. Either way she’d be miserable, but at least she’d have his company. Qurrah seemed to sense it, and he wrapped his arms around her waist.
“We’ll come back,” he said. “When things have calmed down. When people are thinking clearly.”
“What of Aubrienna,” Tessanna whispered. “She’s still in danger. Are we to just leave them?”
Qurrah winced. He’d clearly been thinking the same thing, and it seemed he’d wanted to ignore that fact.
“We have to trust Harruq and Aurelia to protect her,” he said. “You must believe me, our presence here does not help my brother. It only hurts him.”
“Of course it does,” Tessanna said. “That’s all we ever do.”
Tears ran down her face, but she felt her humanity receding, pulled into a deeper part of herself. Whatever emotions she felt, they suffocated, becoming gray things in the corners of her mind that held no sway over her. Qurrah’s face showed his hurt at what she’d said, but she felt no guilt for it, no remorse. She was hurting. Why should he not know it?
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll tell Harruq we’re leaving for Ker. Would you like to say goodbye to Aubrienna before we go?”
As if from a distance, she knew doing so would make her happy.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Qurrah said, taking her hand. “I really am.”
“I know,” she said, as if knowing meant anything at all.
Harruq sat brooding on Antonil’s throne. He still didn’t view it as his own, and he felt sick at the idea that one day he might. Qurrah had informed him of their departure several hours ago. His brother was probably halfway to Ker by now if he was traveling by magic. Their change in attitude was sudden, but strangely not surprising. It was as if, because of their recent arrival, they were better able to smell the danger in the air.
The only thing left to do was sit and wait for the angels’ decision. They were meeting in Avlimar, the many thousands come together from every corner of Mordan to vote on their next course of action. Harruq knew he’d agreed to let it happen, but still, that smug look on Kevin’s face when he’d swung by the throne room to inform him of the meeting’s end had been more than enough to ignite his anger.
Servants came and went, offering him something to eat or drink. Much as he wanted to, he turned it all down. Wine might calm him, but the alcohol might also make it that much harder to control himself should he not like what he was about to hear. Given Qurrah’s rapid departure, he highly doubted the results would be pleasing.
“Milord,” a guard shouted from the far end of the hall. “The angel priest, Azariah.”
The door opened, and Harruq rose from his chair. He was impatient to hear the results, and annoyed at himself for his nervousness. Azariah walked across the carpet, and he dipped his head in respect.
“We have listened to the desires of the people,” he said. “And I have done my best to weigh it against Ashhur’s wisdom. Their pain is great, and their frustrations legitimate given all we have seen of the world since our return.”
The Prison of Angels h-6 Page 18
