The King of the Fallen

by David Dalglish

  Flame exploded in all directions in a perfectly controlled ring. It washed over both orcs, blackening huge swathes of their gray skin and knocking the closer of the two off his feet. The other howled in pain and fury but continued to charge. Commendable, really, the willpower to endure. A swift death without pain, Azariah decided. That is what such concentration deserved.

  The orc crossed the distance, sword raised high and ready to cleave the fallen from shoulder to hip. Azariah waited, his muscles tense. The moment the orc swung, he shifted to one side, his left wing beating to push him back another foot. The sword cut the air, missing by inches.

  Azariah’s hand shot out, grabbing the orc by his meaty neck. The orc looked baffled as he pulled his sword back for another swing. Another spell enacted, and the power flowed out Azariah’s fingers with a satisfying surge. Electricity poured into the orc’s throat, traveling throughout his body. His muscles tightened. His jaw clenched shut and his eyes exploded. Another jolt, stronger, fiercer, scorching the hapless thing’s mind.

  The orc’s body collapsed. His sword clanged against the stone, released from its owner’s limp hand.

  “Demon,” the other orc spat as he struggled to his feet. The left side of his face was horribly charred, along with much of his upper body. Blood more oozed than bled from sections of his exposed muscles and ribs.

  “No, not demon,” Azariah said, thinking of the red-winged servants of Thulos. “We resemble something else on this broken little world.”

  He whispered the words of another spell, one he had yet to try. Purple sparks swirled around his fingers, materializing into an invisible hand clutching the orc and lifting him a foot above the ground. The orc shrieked in pain from the pressure on his scorched flesh. Azariah stepped closer, soaking in every detail. The pallid color of the orc’s skin. The unhealthy hanging of his ears. His twisted teeth, seemingly angled and sharpened to cause as much pain to the orc as any potential prey. Revolting, absolutely revolting.

  “You were beautiful once,” Azariah said. “As were we. Elf and angel. Orc and fallen. To think you are what Ashhur would have us become.”

  Azariah slammed both his wrists together and bathed him in fire. He blackened and peeled away every inch of the cursed flesh, reducing it to bones and ash that collapsed to the floor in a scattered mess.

  “It seems a theme of this world,” Azariah said. He crossed the hall, the interlopers already gone from his mind. “The loved becoming the cursed and despised. The elves, cursed into these ugly gray orcs. Your angels, ordered to fall. But there was another who was before us, first in many ways upon Dezrel.”

  His footfalls released heavy echoes. A smile stretched his lips when he spotted the artifact he sought, lying forgotten in the far corner of the room.

  “Do you hate him still?” Azariah said, kneeling beside the small, seemingly innocuous book. Seeing it still there, unharmed and intact, flooded him with relief. “I wonder that myself. For centuries I thought I knew, but now I fear the First Man was also the first to understood the true impossibility of our task.”

  Through the spells, the orcs, and the fire, the journal had survived. When the war god’s forces set foot upon Dezrel, it’d been discarded and forgotten, its purpose served. The knowledge remained, once blasphemous and hated, but now…

  Now Azariah held the worn journal of Jacob Eveningstar, First Man granted life by the brother gods, the one who betrayed Ashhur and took the name Velixar. Azariah flipped through the pages, examining its tight scrawl. Passages of spells stood out to him among the notes. There were so many. Attempts to understand madness, to break down a mind and rebuild it in different ways. As if Velixar could rebuild humanity in a manner that would remove their impulsive need to sin. Azariah discovered spells to control the undead, manipulating them in ways the angel was only beginning to understand. Passages on Celestia and her strange, absent role in guiding history through the occasional intervention of her Daughters of Balance.

  One spell in particular stood out most, the spine of the journal sorely bent to naturally lead one to its location. Bits of ash licked the page, but to the fallen angel’s great relief, they did not obscure the words.

  “You opened a door to a world of war and destruction.” Azariah stroked the page with reverence. “But there are other worlds. Better worlds.”

  He closed the book and tucked it underneath his arm. His portal was growing weaker by the second. He could read and memorize later, in the comfort of his tower chamber. Quickening his steps, he stepped through, enduring the terrible wave of nausea and vertigo. It assaulted him much stronger now than during the first trip, and he fell to one knee, simultaneously gagging and coughing once he exited. Judarius hurried to his side, his clumsy steps scattering the thirteen stones and closing the portal with a loud hiss of air.

  “Was your mission a success?” his brother asked.

  In answer, Azariah held aloft the book.

  “It is time we dream a far grander dream,” he said. “For if Dezrel is our prison, I have obtained the key.”

  2

  Tarlak frowned at his reflection in the creek, squinting as if doing so might smooth the faint ripples across its surface.

  “Does this look like the right color to you?” he asked, beckoning Harruq closer. “More red? Less red? Or maybe the yellow tint isn’t quite proper. Of course, I’m not pure and total red. I’d look like Jerico if I was.”

  Harruq stared at him, his confused gaze enough to tell Tarlak that his friend had no idea what he was talking about.

  “How do you not know the color of your own hair?” the half-orc asked.

  “Because I’ve spent the majority of my life with it on my head and not in front of my face,” Tarlak snapped. “Speaking of face, I’m still worried about my nose. Is it too pointy? I think it’s too pointy.”

  Harruq rolled his eyes and refused to comment. Tarlak had spent the past day constantly tweaking his features with the polymorph spell he’d crafted during his time imprisoned within the Council towers. Though his body might have belonged to Cecil Towerborn, Tarlak was determined to shape and change every single bloody part of it back into the glorious red-haired wizard he had once been. The problem was, nothing ever felt or looked quite right. Sure, to everyone else he looked like his old self, but the feeling was always there, like a particularly bothersome itch.

  “I don’t get why you’re so determined to look exactly like your old self,” Harruq said. “If you’re willing to change your nose and eyes and face and hair, why not try to improve it? Make yourself even more handsome or something?”

  Tarlak lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying it is possible for me to be more handsome than I already am?”

  “Forget it,” Harruq said, waving his hands in surrender. “Pretend I didn’t ask.”

  “But you did. I heard you. And I won’t forget this horrible betrayal of friendship and character.”

  His friend already had his back to him, returning to the village they’d camped at for the night. The half-orc lifted his right hand, forming an obscene gesture.

  “Love you too, Tar,” Harruq shouted over his shoulder. “And hurry up. The paladins are waiting.”

  Tarlak returned to staring at the creek. On second thought, maybe his nose wasn’t too pointy after all. But then why was he so convinced it was off?

  You know why.

  Tarlak sighed. Enough fiddling with his facial features. There were matters of slightly more importance to attend. First and foremost, saying goodbye to the two paladins. He splashed the surface of the water with his palm to distort his reflection and then hurried across the field.

  While the hundreds of refugees from the Night of Black Wings had gathered in the village’s streets and homes, his surviving Eschaton camped just to the south, hoping for some measure of privacy as they planned out their actions for the next few weeks. Tarlak approached with arms crossed over his chest to keep his fingers from fidgeting. He’d develop
ed a bad fidgeting habit since escaping the Council, much to his displeasure. Yet another thing to reinforce the notion that his stolen body was not his own. Which it wasn’t. But that was beside the point.

  Jerico and Lathaar waited side by side, with the little King Gregory between them. The boy had his arms wrapped around Jerico’s leg. He looked thoroughly worried. Harruq sat with his wife, bouncing a happy Aullienna on his knee. Waiting nearby were three more paladins, the younger students Tarlak didn’t recognize and whose names he had not bothered to learn.

  “I see the whole gang is here,” Tarlak said when he strolled up. “Well, save for Qurrah and Tessanna. Did they go off to cause more mischief?”

  He winced inwardly at the anger that his own lighthearted jest caused him.

  “They’re down by the river,” Harruq told him with a frown. “Staring at the stars or something.”

  “Auntie Tess doesn’t like goodbyes,” Aubrienna added.

  “Ah, yes,” said Tarlak. “But not the rest of you. Did you say your own tearful goodbyes already?”

  “Already done while you were doing…whatever it was you were doing at the creek,” Jerico said.

  “Important facial reconstruction.”

  “Sure,” Lathaar said. “We’ll accept that. So how close can you get us to the Citadel?”

  “It depends,” Tarlak said. “I should be able to cross a good fifty miles or so for you, if I push myself. Or you could wait a day for me to do the required rune carving to make a more powerful portal. With that, I can put you right on your Citadel’s doorstep.”

  The two stared at him blankly.

  “Why didn’t you start on that last night when we decided to escort Aullienna and Gregory there?” Lathaar asked.

  Tarlak shrugged. “Because I didn’t think to start on it until you just asked. Sorry. Been a little preoccupied, what with remaking a stolen body after escaping from certain death at the Council towers. I’m going to point out Aurelia over there is equally as capable of this as yours truly.”

  “Enough, enough,” Jerico said, cutting him off. “Ashhur help us, you whine more than a child. We have no time to wait for you to prepare a stronger portal, so send us as far as you can.”

  “Safely,” Lathaar added.

  Tarlak shook his head, put his back to them, and began moving his arms in a circle.

  “Shave a little piece of your faith in Ashhur off to spare for me, would you?” he said. “I’ve only helped save the world.”

  “You’re right, Jerico,” Lathaar chuckled. “He does whine more like a child when you really start paying attention.”

  Tarlak yanked his arms downward, ripping a blue portal into existence with a loud hissing intake of air.

  “Be glad I’m fond of you two,” he said with a glare. “Otherwise this portal would send you high, high above the Gihon River.”

  Tarlak realized Gregory was watching him with wide eyes and immediately brightened. He smiled at the boy while dropping to one knee. A twirl of his hand and a little silver coin appeared between his thumb and forefinger. He offered it to the little king.

  “This coin here is incredibly good luck,” he said. “I’ve never once had a bad thing happen to me in my entire life while carrying it. Times are tough though, so…do you think you can hold this for me, Gregory? Keep it nice and protected?”

  Gregory snatched the coin and held it against his chest.

  “I will,” he said with the seriousness of a man accepting a lifelong quest.

  “Excellent. I’ll sleep much better at night knowing you’re guarding over it.”

  Tarlak stepped away and nodded at each of the paladins.

  “Stay safe, all right?” he said. “And keep our little king here safe, too.”

  “Ashhur watch over you,” Lathaar said. He clapped Tarlak across the shoulder. “And do not worry about us. Of all the places on Dezrel, the Citadel is the safest and most holy place to Ashhur. Azariah and his fallen angels won’t stand a chance if they try to break inside.”

  Except the original Citadel had been destroyed and the paladins within wiped out years ago. Tarlak decided that might be a bad point to bring up. It might spoil the goodbyes.

  Harruq lifted Aubrienna into his arms as he stood, and together he and Aurelia whispered their parting words. Lathaar, meanwhile, took little Gregory by the hand.

  “It’s nothing scary,” he told the lad as they approached the portal. “Just a single step, that’s all.”

  Gregory said nothing, only nodded. Tarlak admired his courage. For how young he was, his behavior should have been similar to others of his age, at least by Tarlak’s understanding: whiny, annoying, and often a brat. Poor kid. Like many in Dezrel, he was about to grow up infinitely faster than the previous generations.

  Lathaar and Gregory hopped into the portal on the count of three. Tarlak felt a twinge in his forehead, similar to a headache, as more power flowed out of him and into the spell to keep the portal open. The three paladin trainees were next, each bowing in respect before entering. After that was Aubrienna, who proudly declared she would enter on her own. Harruq and Aurelia kissed their daughter’s cheek, then stood hand in hand, watching the elven girl sprint through the portal. Jerico, the last to enter, hesitated.

  “I know I’m supposed to be the hopeful one,” Jerico said. His tone had changed. More worried. Almost embarrassed with its seriousness. “But I can’t stay blind to the obvious. Azariah’s angels will come to the Citadel eventually.”

  “It’s still safer than roaming the countryside with us,” Tarlak said. “He’ll at least be in a defensible position.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to tell you,” Jerico said. He glanced at Harruq and Aurelia. “We’re one of Ashhur’s last few loyal bastions, and Azariah’s twisted mind won’t leave us be. He’ll want to convert us or destroy us. Of that, I’m certain. We’ll be a tough nut to crack, and given all the other threats to his rule, I’m praying he decides to save us for last.”

  Tarlak made a face. “I sense a ‘but’ here, and one you expect me to solve.”

  Jerico chuckled. “But if Azariah realizes the boy isn’t with the rest of the Mordeina refugees, he’ll begin wondering where else he might be, and it won’t take him long to focus on us. There is no escape from the Rebuilt Citadel. No secret tunnels, no hidden waterways. Should he besiege us, it will only be a matter of time, which means you can’t let him do so. You must convince that fallen bastard that Gregory is still here with you.”

  “Oh, sure, give me all the difficult and likely magic-involving tasks,” Tarlak said.

  Jerico thudded a hand into Tarlak’s breast.

  “Hey, I’m going to join my friend and pupils in a stand against the fallen that will likely cost all of us our lives,” he said. “Not everyone gets the easy tasks.”

  “Well, I guess much is required of those who know what they’re doing,” Tarlak said, smiling. “Don’t worry. I already have a plan in mind to keep Azariah’s attention locked on us.”

  “I couldn’t ask for more.” The paladin looked to the portal. “If the fallen lay siege to the Citadel, I will assume it means your efforts here failed. We won’t expect rescue, and we won’t let the children be taken. I do not want to imagine the life they might lead in Azariah’s hands.”

  “We understand,” Aurelia said, even though saying the words clearly pained her.

  “Don’t lose your hope yet,” Harruq said. He grinned as if he could force his cheer to become infectious. “We’ve endured worse.”

  “That seems our rallying cry these days,” Jerico said, brushing aside his red hair and turning to the portal. “We’ve endured worse. We’ve succeeded against far more dire odds. I’m not sure what hope I find in knowing how terrible and bloody all our lives have been. I’d rather be reminded there’s a world worth saving that isn’t so preoccupied with murdering one another.”

  Tarlak remained silent. Let the paladin have his moment
of quiet doubt. On the other side of that portal he’d be teacher and instructor to the paladins under his tutelage. There’d be no chance to show the cracks in his armor there. Harruq stepped up, and he put a hand on the paladin’s shoulder. Jerico patted it once, accepting the quiet confidence, and then strode through the portal amidst a crackle of energy. Tarlak immediately closed it, returning the field to silence. The wizard crossed his arms and frowned.

  “Well, shit,” he said. “That was depressing.”

  The world most often is.

  “I don’t like it any better than you do,” Harruq said. “You’re sure you can keep Azariah fooled with your illusions?”

  “If he scries for Gregory, or even Aubrienna, he’ll see them at our sides,” Tarlak said. “Trust me, I don’t make mistakes, not when the lives of those kids are on the line. They’ll be safe at the Citadel, or at the least a whole lot safer than marching alongside us to war. Keep your focus on the fallen, and on killing a whole bunch of them with your shiny black swords.”

  Aurelia slid her hand into Harruq’s and leaned her smaller frame against him.

  “And we do trust you,” she said. “Please do not mistake our worry as doubt over your abilities. There is nothing rational in fear.”

  “Nor is there anything irrational about worrying what that psycho angel in charge of Mordeina might do,” Tarlak said. “Trust me, no offense taken. Now that this matter is settled, there’s an even larger one at hand. Where do we go from here?”

  Since the Night of Black Wings, the survivors had relied on Harruq to guide them. Not a surprise, given that he was the storied Godslayer that had saved Dezrel from Thulos’s reign. Harruq, on the other hand, hated every second of it and deferred to Tarlak and Aurelia as often as possible.