“People of Mordeina,” bellowed the angel. “I am Ezekai, loyal servant and friend of your King, Azariah the Wise and Just. Today marks a momentous occasion, for I come before you to deliver a new way to rest your tired feet, a new truth for your burdened hearts, and a new salvation for this broken land we call Dezrel.”
Ezekai paused, letting his words sink in.
“I shall not be making this revelation alone,” he continued. “For we shall not be enacting this new order alone. To aid me in this, I present to you Paladin Umber of the Stronghold.”
A fresh wave of murmurs marked the arrival of the Dark Paladins of Karak from behind the stage. There was no mistaking the six of them, men and women covered from head to toe in painted platemail. The unholy Lion was carved into their breastplates, and its roaring visage marked the faces of their shields and the hilts of their swords. To see them walk so proudly amid the fallen, angels who had so recently fought on the side of Ashhur and laid waste to entire armies of Karak, unnerved even the normally stone-hearted Deathmask.
“Have the angels turned to Karak since Ashhur cursed them?” Veliana whispered. She was hardly the only one with that thought, based on the whispers that washed through the forcibly assembled crowd.
“No,” he replied in an equally low voice. “Something about that feels...off. I suspect we shall soon have our explanation.”
“Do not burden yourself with confusion,” Ezekai shouted. “Answers will come, and our priests will be lecturing every third hour throughout the city to help educate you to the new ways. But for now, we shall grace you all with the honor of being the first to hear the new Three Laws that shall guide not just those here within Mordeina, but all those living in the perfected lands of Paradise.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear these brilliant laws,” Deathmask grumbled.
“And then promptly break them,” Veliana added.
Ezekai removed a small scroll from his belt and dramatically unfurled it. He stood to his full height, his black wings fanning outward to make him seem that much taller and grander. His voice boomed across the theater. His right hand held the scroll, while his left lifted high above his head and pointed a lone finger.
“The First Law: worship Ashhur for his grace and forgiveness, and as messenger for the kindness you are to show others.”
“What nonsense is this?” Veliana whispered. “They suffer Ashhur’s curse yet still claim to serve him?”
Deathmask held a finger her direction to shush her. It wasn’t that he disagreed, only that he wished to hear the remainder of the laws.
The fallen angel retreated a step, and the man Deathmask presumed to be Umber spread his arms and addressed the people as if they were his beloved children, a sight that filled Deathmask’s stomach with an unhealthy amount of bile. He was a younger man, his face a mixture of freckles and scars. Even more striking were the twin lions tattooed on either side of his neck.
“The Second Law,” shouted Umber. “Worship Karak for his judgment and wisdom, and as a model for the firm hand you need to reach perfection.”
“Oh, piss on all of this,” Veliana seethed as the crowd susurrated in mutual surprise. She seemed incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself despite Deathmask’s insistence. “They’re working together. Karak’s paladins and Ashhur’s former angels, preaching inglorious harmony.”
Umber stepped back, and the angel fluttered forward.
“Last, but equally vital,” Ezekai announced. He held three fingers above him. “The Third Law: worship Azariah and his angels for their ceaseless guidance, for they shall lead you to Paradise.”
There it was. Azariah had put a crown on his head, and now he demanded the people elevate him to a status equal to Karak and Ashhur. That level of arrogance astounded even Deathmask, but he doubted the fallen angel saw it that way. Those in power had a supernatural ability to be blind to their own faults and failures.
Both Umber and Ezekai addressed the crowd next, and they did so with drawn and raised swords.
“Kneel!” they shouted in unison. “Bow your heads in prayer.”
The wave started at the front. Men, women, and children dropped to their knees and bowed their heads to offer the demanded worship. Deathmask glanced at Veliana, and they shared an unspoken agreement. She slipped a mask over her face. He dipped a hand into his pocket and scattered ash into a frozen whirlwind about his head. This was stupid, so incredibly stupid. The two of them could not take on six fallen angels and six dark paladins simultaneously, let alone the rows of undead that awaited outside the theater. Yet they would not bow. They would not pray falsely. Besides, they were in a theater. Why not give the people a show?
Deathmask ran two of his fingers across the dagger in his left hand, drawing blood. He focused upon it, channeling power through a mental incantation. By the time all in the crowd bowed, only Deathmask and Veliana remained standing with their weapons drawn and their faces hidden. The sight of them was a bolt of energy through frightened masses. Both Umber and Ezekai started for a brief moment before readying their blades.
“No,” Deathmask said, a tweak of magic ensuring his calmly spoken words echoed throughout the theater. “We will not kneel.”
He flicked his fingers toward the stage. The scarlet drops of blood flew over the crowd, shimmering red with magic. One of the dark paladins beside Umber dove in the way, sensing a threat even if none were yet visible. The blood drops splashed across his crossed arms, as well as his chest and waist. Deathmask snapped his fingers.
The paladin’s instincts were indeed correct. The blood exploded into dark fire. The sound of wrenching steel filled the theater, accompanied by a pained wail that was magnified by the theater’s acoustics. The paladin collapsed, his body rent in half. The fire continued to burn as if the blood were suddenly gallons of oil. Though the stone stage itself could not catch fire, the same could not be said for its luxurious crimson cloth covering. The kneeling crowd reacted instantly to the sight of smoke and fire by stampeding toward the exits.
“Time to go,” Deathmask said cheerfully, but Veliana was way ahead of him. He sprinted after her, barely keeping ahead of the frightened mob. He stepped outside to find her slamming into the wave of undead watchers that formed a neat, orderly line near the entrance. Her daggers shimmered with violet fire, adding power to each and every cut. Two quick thrusts tore apart the face of the nearest undead, and a sudden rotation on the ball of her foot sent her heel cracking into the neck of a second. His spine snapped, dropping him.
“No time to play,” Deathmask said, and slammed his wrists together. A bolt of shadow burst forth, flying across the space to smash the chest of a third. Though the shadow appeared to be thick, malleable darkness, it bore the weight and impact of stone. The dead man’s armor crunched inward, then broke as the bolt pushed all the way through and out his back. His bones collapsed, his rotted flesh sloughing off as the magic holding him together faded.
More undead soldiers rushed to face them, but by now hundreds of people had swarmed out the exits. Against that tide, the few dozen undead were but a hiccup. Any that tried to halt the people were quickly shoved aside, and those that fell were trampled underfoot. Veliana took lead, Deathmask right behind her. He feared no dark paladin, not with a fleeing crowd between them. The angels in the sky, on the other hand...
“This way!” Veliana shouted, and before he realized what was happening, she’d grabbed his arm and pulled. Together they stumbled into the nearest alley, the upper half of which was a crisscross of drying clothes hanging from ropes tied between the buildings. Deathmask resisted his friend’s urge to continue, and he ripped his sleeve free of her grasp to spin about. His hands danced in the air, preparing. Anticipating.
An angel swooped into the alleyway at full speed, wings tucked against his sides like a diving hawk seeking prey and his entire body turned sideways to fit into the cramped space. Even prepared, Deathmask nearly faltered when faced with such speed. He cle
nched his hands into fists, releasing his prepared magic. Spikes composed of an inky dark substance swirling with foul magic tore from the walls on either side of the alley. They slammed together, but while they should have enclosed the angel completely, they only succeeded in severing his upper half from his lower. The wait and legs that remained became fast-moving projectiles of steel and gore that tore through the clotheslines, and it was only Veliana’s firm grasp that pulled Deathmask out of the way of the carnage. Even then, he did not escape completely. A boot clipped his forehead on the way down, adding a dizzying spin before he collapsed onto his stomach.
“Fuck me,” he muttered. The world spun and his stomach debated whether or not to empty itself.
“Hardly the time or place,” Veliana said. She was already lifting him up and forcing his legs to move. “For now, we need to get the Abyss out of here.”
Even with his injury, it didn’t take much for them to vanish from the rest of the patrolling angels. After years of dealing with the guilds of Veldaren, hiding in alleys from fallen angels was almost leisurely by comparison.
“I’m getting pretty sick of this particular cellar,” Veliana muttered as she led the way inside. Once they’d shaken their pursuers, they’d shifted their direction to their current hiding location of choice, the dim basement where she’d brought him when he returned to Mordeina.
“I know I’ve promised to kill them before,” Deathmask said, slamming the door shut and enveloping them in darkness. A quick snap of his fingers, a whispered cantrip, and magical flame sparkled from his palm. He gently pushed it forward, floating the flame to the center of the cramped space so it could cast its violet glow across the entire cellar. “But this time I swear I will really make sure they die a hundred horrid and painful deaths. I don’t care if they say they follow Karak or Ashhur. Dead. I’m going to make them dead.”
He gingerly touched his forehead. An enormous welt had already sprouted from where he’d been clipped by the fallen angel’s boot. Given the intensity of his headache, he wouldn’t be surprised if it’d cracked the bone.
“I never considered you someone who cared about another person’s worship,” Veliana said.
“As far as I’m concerned, both gods are responsible for destroying the world,” Deathmask said. “So in my humble opinion, fuck them all. Fuck Ashhur. Fuck Karak. By the Abyss, even fuck Celestia for putting up with those two brats in the first place. If she’d known any better, she would have stomped us humans out the moment we crawled from the mud and muck.”
Veliana settled into one of the cellar’s corners, shifting aside some wet pieces of broken wood so she might have someplace moderately dry to sit.
“If that’s what you think, why are you so upset about any sort of agreement between Ashhur and Karak?” she asked. “Even if it’s just fake, like theirs obviously is? No one believes Ashhur guides the angels he so clearly cursed. No one’s praying to Karak out of loyalty or sincerity. It’s all fear and control to get what Azariah wants. Does it matter what form that fear and control takes?”
Deathmask snapped his fingers so the cloud of ash obscuring his features dropped to the floor in a gray poof. “You sound so very much like me five years ago. I’m flattered.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
That he was, without even realizing it. He squirmed a bit, his back uncomfortably pressed into a shelf filled with jarred vegetables of unknown age. Talking about religion was one of his least favorite activities. Rarely did he give the time or energy to consider what any of the gods might want, beyond how they may try to stifle him in an adversarial role. Yet with Mordan effectively ruled by angels, there hadn’t been much choice in the matter over the past five years, and now Azariah had come along and thrown yet another jug of oil onto an already out-of-control fire.
But Veliana wasn’t wrong. The idea of what Azariah proposed, and the faith he seemed determined to create, did bother him to no end. The intensity of it surprised even him. So what was it?
“I suppose it’s because I’ve always felt humanity can be better,” he said. “For all our faults and failures, there is the potential we accomplish something meaningful during our dismal little lives. And for a lot of people, the gods help them do that. They give them the incentive they need to actually give a damn about others, as sad as that sounds. Yet too often the priests and servants of those gods dress up the requirements. They saddle good deeds with required tithes. They give cowardly outs to those with guilty consciences. Don’t step out your front door and help others, just hide at home and offer Ashhur your intercessory prayer instead. That’s good enough, isn’t it?”
“Be better,” Veliana said. “You truly think humanity can be better? That all this shit we find ourselves in isn’t our own fault?”
Deathmask had been so focused on his own ramblings and rants he hadn’t realized how emotional his dear friend had become. She crouched in the corner, her jaw clenched so tight she resembled a beast baring her fangs. Her right hand rested upon her face, fingers tracing the scar carved into her flesh many years ago by a bastard known simply as Worm.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps I am talking out of my ass. You’ve seen the absolute worst of us, Vel. And the gods know I’ve used the weak impulses of others to turn a profit for myself. Maybe we’re all damned and rotten, but I won’t let Azariah get away with this wretched compromise of his. If the divine hold any meaning to humanity, it should be to inspire hope. It should lift up those who need it, and who seek it. Not kill. Not destroy.” He laughed. “Leave the killing and destroying to the twisted bastards like us. At least we don’t pretend our actions are divine.”
Veliana pulled her hand away from her scar. Her gaze turned unfocused as she receded into her memories.
“I had a friend once,” she said. “Perhaps ‘friend’ is too strong a word, but we trained together for a few years. Her name was Zusa, a member of a particular cult of Karak that forced its women to cover up every shred of exposed skin in some sort of atonement for supposed sins. It took such a long time for her to grow comfortable showing her face, even to me. It took even longer for her to break from the guilt they saddled her with. She was so skilled, so beautiful, and yet all she’d been told throughout her life was to hide herself in shame and was convinced that her value was found only in servitude to Karak.”
Veliana stood, clutching the hilts of her sheathed daggers as if she needed something to grasp lest she lose control. The rage, the disgust, was beyond anything Deathmask had seen in her before. It impressed and frightened him in equal measure.
“Azariah would wrap the entire world in cloth,” she said. “He would crush every instinct for joy, uniqueness, or discovery in the name of a so-called Paradise. Every man, woman, and child will be saddled with so much guilt and told the only way, the only path to salvation, is through blind obedience. I will not have it. I don’t give a shit about the divine. I don’t care if they can help humanity, or hurt us. Save our souls, or burn them in the fires of the Abyss? Piss on either. I refuse to let Azariah turn the entire world Faceless. His name, Karak’s, Ashhur’s, it doesn’t matter whose. We won’t be bound. We won’t be imprisoned for a Paradise that is nothing more than a joyless graveyard of bones.”
“I applaud your enthusiasm,” Deathmask said. “But we are a mere two against an entire city of undead, a host of fallen angels, and dark paladins of Karak. What, exactly, do you propose we do to prevent Dezrel from sliding into such an accursed fate?”
She drew her daggers and flipped the handles twice before pointing their edges his way.
“We kill, and then kill some more,” she said. “I do believe you promised to roll Azariah’s head down the steps of the castle, did you not?”
Deathmask laughed. “That I did.”
“And have you abandoned that plan?”
He leaned against the shelf, closed his eyes, and grinned. By the gods, he did not deserve a friend so fierce, so wonderful.
“Not at all,” he said. “And should I ever consider it, I expect you to keep me on the proper path to much-needed revenge. Oh, and before this horrid headache makes me forget: add Ezekai and Umber to the list of those whose heads I need to roll.”
8
Jerico stepped into the small room of the Citadel, finely furnished with a padded feather-mattress, a slender standing mirror, and a chestnut wardrobe. When planning the rebuilding, the room had been meant to serve visiting dignitaries. Jerico found it doubtful the haggard-looking farmer sitting on the edge of the bed was what the angels had in mind.
Lathaar waited for him inside, still in the casual white undershirt and faded brown trousers he’d woken up wearing that morning. His swords, however, were nearby, and Jerico worried at how his friend kept nervously tapping his fingers upon their sheaths.
“I was told we had an injured guest,” Jerico said, throwing the farmer a wide grin. “Yet you seem far from injured.”
“It’s nothing, sir,” the farmer said. He looked in his late thirties, his skin deeply tanned and his clothes permanently stained from sweat. His voice carried the heavy drawl common to those in the western portions of Omn, before the majority of its populace had crossed the river during the second Gods’ War to settle throughout the nation of Ker. “Just a bit of a bleeding foot from the walk. I stepped wrong on a branch near the river, that’s all.”
“I prayed over it already,” Lathaar said as he stood. “No reason in letting our good man here suffer while we waited for you to arrive.”
The King of the Fallen Page 9
