The King of the Fallen

by David Dalglish

  Despite looking right at her, Ahaesarus never once noticed her arrow lacked the light of their god.

  5

  Bernard’s daily walks had carried him westward over the past few weeks, where he hoped to eventually traverse the more well-marked and well-traveled road that led from the Bloodbrick Crossing at the border to Ker all the way to the front gates of the capital city of Mordeina. He had expected to travel the many miles alone, but it seemed Ashhur had other plans.

  “An army?” he wondered aloud when he first saw the many cook-fires filling the northern sky with smoke. “And if so, whose?”

  He kept to the road nonetheless, praying his status as a priest of Ashhur would keep him safe no matter the allegiance of the army, be it from Ker, Mordan, or the angels themselves. As he crossed another half-mile, he saw it was no army at all. Instead he saw dozens of children and elderly riding wagons, while at the forefront marched hundreds of younger men and women. All of them carried their belongings on their backs in leather packs or tied blankets and cloth. The sight was a sadly familiar one for Dezrel—refugees fleeing yet another ruined city.

  “Hail,” Bernard called out to the beleaguered men and women who passed him by. If there was a leader among them, he saw no sign of it, nor did many seem to care for his presence. “Is there room for a priest among your number?”

  “Room for everyone,” a middle-aged woman said as she strolled on by. “So long as you’re willing to walk.”

  The fallen were north, but the people fled south. For Bernard, it wasn’t much choice. He turned about and followed, traveling in the very heart of the several hundred men and women. He listened to their tales, those with the strength to tell them. He heard of Azariah declaring himself as king and first-hand accounts of the visions Ashhur had shown him of the angels’ fall in dreams weeks prior. He remained silent as those with him took their turn to describe the Night of Black Wings, and the chaos that followed. Slaughter without hesitation. Murder without reason. It was the rage of the heavens unleashed on an unsuspecting, defenseless populace, and it broke Bernard’s heart with every new telling. Not a soul there was spared. Everyone knew a friend or family member who died at the blade of a fallen angel.

  “Such punishment feels inadequate to the crimes,” Bernard said at one point when being told of the faded skin, black wings, and crown of bone that Azariah had been inflicted with.

  “What crimes did we commit?” a man beside him had asked.

  That the people considered the curse cast upon the fallen as punishment to them, and not upon the angels, was telling enough. Bernard never spoke of it again, nor did he answer those who sought enlightenment on Ashhur’s reasoning. Truth be told, he did not have one.

  Their travels done for the day, the people started setting up their camps, Bernard scoped out the ramshackle village that would be their camping spot. No doubt it had once thrived off travelers between Mordan and Ker, but it had been destroyed years ago by Thulos’s army and never recovered. People crammed into the hollowed out buildings, preferring dilapidated shelters to open sky. Someone brought Bernard a stool, and the priest graciously accepted. He set the stool in the center of the village, sat by his lonesome, closed his eyes, and asked Ashhur for his blessing.

  “Bring me those in need,” he said. “I care not how heavy or light their burden. Bring me them all.”

  Bernard was not prepared for just how many came to him, no matter their destitute state. It reminded him of the first days of the Second Gods’ War, when the refugees of Neldar and Omn arrived at Mordeina. People had packed into the various churches while the priests had prayed incessantly for days to cure the myriad aches, fevers, and broken bones. Even if he had not been told of the angels’ fall, he’d have been able to piece much of it together. The many wounds, the inflamed flesh and cuts that desperately needed cleaning, all told a grim story.

  Hours later, Bernard could barely lift his head or keep his eyes open. Despite several dozen people still patiently waiting, he bid the helpers who had joined him in setting up the line to dismiss those gathered.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “I will do what I can on the morrow, but for now, I must sleep.”

  As tired as he felt, he knew it miraculous he had healed so many. Such feats should have been beyond him, but there was no doubting the influx of strength and power granted to him by Ashhur since leaving the Sanctuary. As he lay his head on a pillow graciously given to him by one of the refugees, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep within the bedroom of one of the few intact homes, an honor given to him for his hours of work.

  Sleep, however, was not yet coming.

  My enemies await, whispered Ashhur’s voice within his mind. You fled your duty once before. Do you now echo your previous shame?

  “And if I do?” Bernard whispered back into the night.

  My gift is not granted freely. Overcome your weakness. Stand tall before those who would harm Dezrel.

  “I seek not to fight your enemies, my lord. Consider it weakness if you must, but I would aid your people all that I can.”

  Then why do you travel south? Will you not aid my people?

  “Your people travel south,” Bernard answered.

  The Fallen rule to the north.

  “Are they your people? Or are they your enemies?”

  He received no answer, nor did he wish for one. He merely wished to sleep.

  Bernard learned more of the state of Mordan as he walked among her people.

  The refugees had started out as survivors fleeing from Mordeina during what was known as the Night of Black Wings. Their numbers had split come morning, those armed and able to fight staying with the Godslayer and his friends. The rest traveled south, fleeing for the presumed safety of Ker. Only one fighting man had come with them, sent to lead and organize as they traveled: a very grumpy and unhappy knight, Sir Wess Langton. Bernard was introduced to him early that next day.

  “Captain of the guard,” the knight muttered after their introduction. “Captain of the guard for all of Mordeina, safekeeping thousands upon thousands of civilians, and what does that half-orc bastard order me to do? Wet-nurse a bunch of refugees.”

  Bernard liked Sir Wess, but he confessed a predilection toward such military personalities. He was fond of these stern men and women committed to order, rank, and commands. His fondness was certainly selfish, for such people understood the nature of Ashhur’s relationship toward humanity in similar roles, of a higher authority giving orders to those below. It made his own position easier, even if it meant sometimes correcting the oversimplification of matters during post-sermon discussions.

  “The Godslayer put in your hands the most vulnerable and helpless, for you to guide and protect,” Bernard said in response. “There is real honor in that.”

  Sir Wess frowned deep enough to scrunch his white mustache between his lip and nose. “Perhaps there is. But I still wish I could have stabbed a few more of those damned angels prior to heading south.”

  “I pray you do not get your wish, good sir. We still have many miles to cross before we reach Ker.”

  Their group was large enough that news of their approach arrived in towns long before the convoy itself did. Many more people joined in the procession, for even if their homes had been miraculously spared the trauma and death of the Night of Black Wings, they were not willing to risk living in the land that Azariah had renamed Paradise. Those who joined gave to others whatever belongings they could not carry themselves. Even some of those who stubbornly remained behind often donated what they could. Others sold food, blankets, and wagons, at reasonable prices. When the destitute and desperate arrived at your doorstep numbering in the thousands, even the most ruthless of barterers realized angering the mob was asking for everything to be taken, with nothing offered in return.

  After a week of travel, the group arrived at the Bloodbrick Crossing. As Bernard had feared, crossing the Corinth River into the land of Ker would be no simple task
. News had reached the refugees of King Bram’s defeat at the hands of the fallen, so as expected, the surviving army was camped along the riverbank, manning the blockade that had been erected over the course of the escalating tensions between Mordan and Ker. Instead of approaching the bridge, Sir Wess ordered the people to halt half an hour out from the crossing. The tired and impatient people reluctantly obeyed. Bernard prayed over the sickest and most hurting of the lot until someone came to fetch him for a meeting.

  “Is something the matter?” Bernard asked upon his arrival. A dozen or so men and women gathered together at the forefront of the refugees. Sir Wess was there, of course, while the others were but faces among many. From their clothes, he could tell they came from wealth and prestige.

  “We must choose someone to speak for us when we attempt to cross into Ker,” Sir Wess said.

  Bernard glanced about the group.

  “And you want it to be me,” he said.

  “We have no lands, no titles, and no wealth,” Sir Wess reluctantly admitted. “Even my rank as a knight is meaningless at this point, for it’s not as if I have a home or lands to return to after all this. Humble as you may pretend to be, you’re still a powerful priest of Ashhur.”

  Bernard bit his tongue, rankled at the accusation that his humility was a ruse. “Ker has rarely shown much love for Ashhur, even less since the arrival of the angels,” he argued.

  “It’s still more status than any of us hold,” said another. “Please, speak for us. We fear no one else here will be listened to.”

  As much as he hated the responsibility, giving voice to the voiceless was one of the explicitly demanded rolls of a priest of Ashhur.

  Ten minutes later, Bernard crossed the muddy ground between the refugees and the bridge, his hands raised in peace. The soldiers lining the Bloodbrick shouted for him to halt.

  “I speak for those who lack the voice to do so for themselves,” he said, figuring it couldn’t hurt to add a bit of flowery language to his request. “Who among you may entreat with me?”

  “I guess I can,” said one of the soldiers. “What is it you want? We’ve orders to let no one cross. Don’t matter if you’re priest, prince, or pauper.”

  “Surely simple orders did not anticipate refugees of such numbers, nor their pressing need,” Bernard said. He set foot onto the bridge, glad to have firm stone beneath him instead of muddy earth. “Who is in charge here? Might I speak with them and plead my case?”

  Several soldiers exchanged quick words.

  “I’ll tell the Commander he has a guest,” one finally said. “Though heaven knows if he’ll have the time.”

  “I am a patient man,” Bernard said. “If he is busy, I shall wait until he is ready.”

  Bernard sat on the stone, set his hands atop his knees, and wordlessly hummed a hymn to pass the time. Life as a priest had granted him a tremendous reservoir of patience, and it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be. As the hours passed, the soldiers nearby grew increasingly uncomfortable with his presence in the center of the Bloodbrick. Despite someone having gone to inform their commander of his request, it seemed no one would be coming to address his concerns. The idea was almost laughable. Did whoever was in charge think the teeming mass of refugees would magically vanish into thin air if they were simply ignored?

  “You can wait with your people, and we’ll come for you when the Commander is ready,” a soldier finally said.

  “I’m fine here.”

  “Then at least stop with the damn humming. You’ve been at it for hours.”

  “Hours, has it?” Bernard said. “I didn’t notice. You’re right, though. Time will pass swifter with an actual song.”

  He sang, knowing full well his voice was not the most pleasant to the ear. After another twenty minutes, one of the soldiers stormed off. When he returned, an older man decked head to toe in chainmail arrived. He carried a gleaming shield on his left arm bearing the crest of the Bram family, that of a screeching eagle.

  “Are you the old priest harassing my men?” the newcomer asked.

  “I merely sing hymns in worship of my god, Ashhur,” Bernard said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. I am Commander Lurik. Follow me.”

  They crossed the bridge, passing between uneven rows of wooden spikes and piled barricades of stone. Bernard glared at the defenses. None of it would matter to winged angels flying overhead. Were they so frightened of the refugees? Or did they anticipate a human army chasing after them?

  An extravagant tent marked the Commander’s abode. By the level of furnishings, it seemed the man planned to be here for some time. By Ashhur, he’d somehow hauled over an entire dining room set for himself, as well as a bed propped atop flat stones so its supports did not sink into the ground. Such a sight colored his opinion of Lurik. His uniform was pristine, his chainmail polished to a blinding sheen. In lieu of a helmet he wore a foppish hat with three bright red feathers. Perhaps at one point he had been handsome, but age had taken its toll, helped none by the heavy scars across his forehead and cheeks. No doubt he had seen many a battle during the seconds Gods’ War.

  “No thank you,” he told Lurik when offered a drink of what appeared to be lukewarm tea in an iron kettle atop the table. He did take a seat, though, for after humming and singing atop the bridge for so long it felt nice to sit down in a proper chair. “I have no need of pleasantries. All I seek is an answer for the people’s predicament.”

  “If you seek an answer, then I shall keep it simple and give you one,” Lurik said. “Your people cannot cross.”

  “Cannot, or will not?” Bernard pressed.

  “Do not needle me as if winning an argument will grant your people passage. Ker suffers, and it is by Mordan’s hands. King Bram’s invasion cost us dearly. Hands that should have been tending crops instead wielded swords in a foolish invasion to the north. Crops rot in their fields, and I fear the coming winter.”

  “I fear it, too,” Bernard said, careful to keep his mildly pleasant smile locked in place upon his face. “Though I suspect for different reasons. Will you hold the barricade even as the snows fall? Will you deny us entrance while you watch us freeze and starve?”

  Lurik crossed his arms amid a rattle of chainmail. “We speak of treaties, politics, and the difficulty facing entire nations. Do not try to guilt me over a few assorted rabble.”

  “Does the Queen share your opinion?”

  “I will not speak for the Queen Loreina, nor pretend to know her opinion on this matter beyond what orders she has given me. But since she left me in charge of the defenses, let me tell you my opinion, priest.”

  “Please do,” Bernard said. It was becoming harder and harder to maintain that pleasant façade.

  The Commander leaned on the table to shrink the distance between them. His voice lowered. His animosity deepened.

  “You, and all those people with you, worshiped Ashhur’s angels. You let them rule you, and you condemned us for refusing to kneel in servitude just like you. So as far as I’m concerned, it is your problem, not ours. You deal with the consequences.”

  Bernard drummed his fingers atop the table. He did not flinch before such ugliness. Lurik might try to appear intimidating, and to many he likely was, with his armor and scars and the sword strapped to his side. But Bernard had walked hallways lined with the living dead. He had confronted the vicious priest Melorak, and aided in banishing a dragon of pure darkness. This old Commander was but a stubborn child compared to them.

  “I care not for your opinion,” he said. “So instead I seek the opinion of she who rules above you. Where is Queen Loreina? Let her decide if her nation can support a few hungry and tired people fleeing for safety.”

  “The Queen rides south, to muster what additional troops we can afford in preparation for the war your mad angels will certainly bring us,” Lurik said.

  “I presume she will bring those soldiers here to help defend the river?”

&nbs
p; The realization that he’d said more than he intended dawned on Lurik’s face. He shrugged and said, “Possibly.”

  Even though it was obvious to them both she indeed would.

  “Then we shall wait for her return,” Bernard said. “And we shall see if her opinion matches your own.”

  The Commander smirked. “Angels of Mordan slew her husband. You hold out hope for a miracle.”

  Bernard wearily rose to his feet. He dreaded returning to camp, and the painful conversations that would follow as he informed the refugees of their denied entrance.

  “Has no one told you?” he said bitterly. “We come from the land of miracles.”

  6

  Azariah slowly circled the room, checking each and every rune carved into the thirteen stones for the slightest imperfection. The night was deep, and nine lanterns hung equidistant about the walls to add to the faint starlight shining through the windowed ceiling.

  “Yet another of your portals,” Judarius said. “You seem to have adopted strange hobbies over the past weeks. Is this the effect elven magic has on a person’s mind? I would greatly prefer you focus on building an army to chase the people fleeing south to Ker. At the least, we need confirmation from many lords that they are loyal to us and not the missing boy king.”

  Azariah held back a smirk. Here, at the very top of the reformed castle tower of Mordeina, he would replicate a feat performed only by a daughter of balance. To call it a mere hobby was insulting, if one knew the actual extent of the efforts and skill required. Which Judarius certainly did not. Azariah’s Executor was ever-much a being of strength and swords.

  “This is no mere portal,” Azariah said upon finishing yet another inspection. He wasn’t satisfied, but he doubted he would ever be. Delving into such realms of power would always carry a risk. “This is so much more. As for the lords, they will bend the knee. They hold no choice in the matter, so why concern myself with their actions?”