“A whole nation to yourselves, and still you come to pillage,” Jerico said, shaking his head. “You have no one but yourselves to blame.”
He clipped Bonebreaker to his waist and slid his shield onto his back. He saw Jenava come running and offered him a wide grin, only to have it returned with a look of absolute fear.
“You need to run,” the farmer shouted.
Jerico gestured to the many bodies. “What? Why? They’re all dead.”
“Not the orcs.” He pointed to the sky. “Them.”
Jerico followed the direction of his finger. They were still distant, but there was no question that three sets of black wings flew in from the west. Jerico’s heart sank.
“Such wonderful timing, as always.”
“What do we do?” Jenava asked.
“Pretend you killed them yourselves.” The farmer looked at Jerico like he was insane. “Well, do you have any better ideas?”
Jenava grimaced. “We’ll do our best.”
Jerico sprinted toward the nearest house, all the while muttering at his miserable luck. He dove through the door just before the fallen landed, and he quietly laughed with the grim humor that had kept him going throughout the years.
“This isn’t fair. Couldn’t you have at least shown up to help with the orcs first?”
9
“I have the worst luck,” Jerico muttered, backing against the wall adjacent to the window. “At this point I think it’s provable beyond a doubt, really.”
There was no reason to fight the three angels on his own, not if they left the farmers alone. If any of them survived, they might tell Azariah of his presence. The fallen king was clever enough he might wonder why Jerico was back at the Citadel instead of fighting with Harruq and the others. But Jerico kept his mace and shield ready, just in case. After that initial Night of Black Wings, the fallen had seemed to gather control of themselves. Even the most savage bloodlust could be glutted after such a slaughter. Could they be coming to help with the orcs? It was possible, but Jerico’s instincts said otherwise.
“Gather around,” one of the three fallen cried after the trio had landed in the center of the village. “I am Bathala, and I would speak with all members of this village.”
First orcs, now fallen angels. It was enough to make Jerico feel bad for the people here. He carefully peered around the window’s edge to watch the events unfold.
“What transpired here?” Bathala asked once the villagers had gathered.
“Orcs crossed the river,” Jenava hurried to answer before others might. “But we fought ’em off, didn’t we?”
The three fallen glanced about at the bodies. Even a cursory glance put such a story in doubt.
“With what weapons?”
A very good question, one Jenava obviously had no answer for. They possessed mostly farming instruments, maybe some knives and hammers that could make do in a pinch. To deal the colossal damage Jerico had done with Bonebreaker?
“With whatever we got our hands on,” Jenava answered. “When your lives are on the line, you do what you must. A hoe might till soil better than muscle, but it can still pack a wallop when swung right.”
A few others around him nodded and murmured in agreement. It was a weak excuse, but it seemed enough for the fallen. From what Jerico could tell, the gray-skinned monsters seemed only vaguely interested in the orc bodies bleeding out around them. It was a distraction from their true purpose, which their leader unrolled a single scroll to address.
“Next time do not fear to call to us for aid,” Bathala said. “We are still your guardians, even if our appearance and purpose has...shifted due to Ashhur’s callousness.”
Shifted. Jerico smirked. Yes, that was indeed one way to put their black wings, ashen skin, and jagged teeth. Just a mere shift toward the monstrous and away from the beauty they once possessed.
“We come bearing news from Mordeina,” the fallen continued. “We come with wisdom, and guidance, for the people of Dezrel to cherish within their hearts in this new age that our world finds itself in after Thulos’s defeat. In my hands is the wisdom of Azariah the Wise and Just, King of the Angels, Lord of Devlimar, and the guiding hand leading humanity to its divine purpose.”
Jerico clenched his jaw and had to order himself to keep still. He’d been told that Azariah had declared himself king of Mordan, but this was his first time hearing such claims with his own ears. It galled him to his core.
“King of the angels?” someone in the crowd asked. “Didn’t think the angels had no king.”
Bathala extended a bloody smile the man’s way. “We change, just as Dezrel changes. There are no kingdoms of man, not anymore. Mordan and Ker will be merged, and all of humanity ruled under a single nation. Paradise, children of the brother gods. Your nation is Paradise, just as it was when Karak and Ashhur first walked the lands of Dezrel in the only time of peace your race has truly known.”
More worried murmurs.
“What of King Bram?” Jenava asked. “What of Queen Loreina? Have our lieges handed over Ker’s lands to your rule?”
“King Bram Henley is dead,” Bathala said, clearly displeased with the question. “As for Queen Loreina, it is only a matter of time. Humanity has ever been a stubborn child when it comes to accepting what is in their best nature, but we believe that wisdom shall prevail.”
That gave Jerico a bit of hope. If Ker could withstand the fallen’s conquest, there might be hope for an alliance. That, of course, involved Ahaesarus and Queen Loreina overcoming their own differences. Not guaranteed, but more likely as the fallen grew greedier and eyed conquest of all human lands.
Bathala lifted his scroll, clearly eager to bring matters back to his proclamation.
“We have tried granting rules and laws to govern your sinful nature,” he said, resuming his rehearsed speech. “But Azariah has seen the folly of this method. Instead we shall hand down three key rules for humanity to follow. The Three Laws, they shall be known. Simple guidance that all may understand upon hearing, and learn over the course of a lifetime how to better honor and perform these truths. They are divine in nature, and obedience is vital. If you are to survive through these harsh days and reach the sunlit future, you will keep them close to your hearts at all times.”
Jerico slammed a fist against his thigh to keep himself from moving. Azariah would toss aside all of Ashhur’s teachings, and for what? Three little rules he’d crafted on his own? What arrogant, prideful nonsense was this? His initial fury only grew as he listened to Bathala read the Three Laws with such pompousness, as if he expected the people to weep with amazement from merely hearing them.
“The First Law: worship Ashhur for his grace and forgiveness, and as messenger for the kindness you are to show others. The Second Law: worship Karak for his judgment and wisdom, and as model for the firm hand you need to reach perfection. The Third Law: worship Azariah and his angels for their ceaseless guidance, for they shall lead you to Paradise.”
Nothing, no other combination of words in all existence, could have come from Bathala’s lips and angered Jerico more.
“How dare you?” he whispered. “How...dare you?”
It was maddening enough to hear Ashhur and Karak equated to one another on equal terms, as if Karak’s faithful hadn’t torched half the world in their mad quest to free their god. Worse was hearing Azariah elevate himself in equal terms to the two gods, and demand similar worship. Even Karak held better claim to humanity’s heart. Azariah never crafted humanity from the dust and clay. He did not grant the divine gift of a soul into a mortal vessel. Damn it, the angels were meant to be humanity’s protectors. To abandon that role and demand prayer and worship...
“What you ask, it can’t be right,” an older man said. He pushed himself to the front of the crowd. “I’ve worshiped Ashhur all my life. To pray to Karak? To pray to Azariah like a god? That’s a sin, angel. It’s a sin, and by the look of your wings, you’ve done some
sinning yourself. Ashhur ain’t with you, is he? Not if the nightmares we share are true.”
The three fallen spread their wings. Bathala drew his sword.
“Hold your tongue,” he seethed.
The fury in the fallen’s every movement was overwhelming. The way the black wings shivered reminded Jerico of an angered rattlesnake’s tail.
“Forgive an old man,” was the man’s response, for he clearly realized his life hung by a thread. He bowed his head and kept his eyes to the dirt. “I merely ask so I might understand.”
It might have been good enough to spare his life, but it did not soothe the indignation that boiled over all three of the fallen.
“You speak as if you are still equal to us in privilege,” Bathala raged. “You address me as if I am not your divinely appointed superior. This ignorance will not stand, people of Selma. Your sinfulness, your wretchedness, shall abide no longer. The Three Laws are not guidelines for you to ignore. They are not warm words to allow you to sleep well at night. They should inspire fear. You should hold them in your hands like nails, and clutch them tightly no matter how much they make you bleed.”
He swung his sword in a wide arc.
“All of you, on your knees. You shall pray. Pray to Ashhur for forgiveness. Pray to Karak for mercy come the time for judgment. Last, pray to Azariah. Pray that the angel king will lead your sinful kind to Paradise. Hold in your hearts a yearning to become better creatures, better humans, and that dream may become truth.”
It started as a few, but the few became the whole village as men, women, and children dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. The fallen had their weapons drawn, and they towered over the populace with faded armor and black wings. None could resist, so better to feign prayer and mouth a few empty words. Jerico knew it was wise to let them leave. There was no reason to risk his life, nor the lives of the villagers. But the words burned his ears. The demand filled his chest with bile. Wise or not, safe or not, he refused to cower while the fallen forced people to kneel in worship. He carried his mace and shield for a reason, and this was it.
“I know you’re not with them,” Jerico prayed at the door to the home. “But please, stay with me.”
He stepped out from the home. Light shimmered off his shield, and it seemed to grow with Jerico’s fury as he called out to the fallen.
“Three Laws!” he shouted. “Three betrayals!”
The fallen startled at his presence, and all three soared several feet into the air.
“What deception is this?” Bathala asked.
“Deception?” Jerico roared. “You demand people kneel and worship with a blade against their throats, and yet you prattle to me about deception?”
The fallen were far more terrifying villains to face than orcs. Worse, if they fled, he could do nothing to chase. He had to keep them furious. He had to bait them into Bonebreaker’s reach. Given the disgust he saw on their ashen faces, he did not think that would be too difficult. They were trying, though, clinging to a veneer of respectability and honor that matched nothing of their wretched forms.
“We know you, paladin,” Bathala said. “Jerico of the Citadel, great champion of our god. We need not spill blood this day, if you are willing to listen to reason. We bear wisdom, and ask only that you accompany us into this new age.”
“Wisdom,” Jerico said, grinning through clench teethed. “Tell me, what is your wisdom?”
“The brother gods were once one!” the fallen angel shouted as if he spoke some great revelation Jerico hadn’t known since his earliest days in training. “And in the earliest of times, when Dezrel knew peace and prosperity, the gods ruled over all as true kings, directly handing out their laws and verdicts. They worked together as a force for Paradise, un-beholden to kings, queens, or mortal lordlings. We shall return to that time. We shall have humanity ruled directly through the Golden Eternity’s wisest, the closest replication to the divinity we yet possess.”
“You mean Azariah,” Jerico spat.
“King Azariah,” Bathala said, rising higher into the air. “Wisest among us, and chosen by Ashhur himself to be the leader of his religion before his banishment into the eternal realms by the elven goddess. Would you claim yourself wiser than he? Do you believe your few meager decades of mortal existence can compare to the centuries he has experienced? We witnessed humanity climb from the dirt. We watched your kingdoms rise and fall from our golden perch. We suffer, and endure this curse of our mortal flesh, all for your benefit. We shall drag humanity, all of humanity, into the light of eternity so that none must suffer the punishment of Karak’s darkness. Let the purifying flames bear no purpose. Let sin be extinguished so the brothers may be rejoined. This is the path of the righteous. This is the way of the divinely chosen.”
Jerico’s skin crawled. He had fought these fallen before, but not heard them proclaim their ‘wisdom’. He thought somehow Karak’s influence had warped them, but this was something far deeper. This was a rot that went all the way down to the root, and Karak was not to blame. Not even Azariah could have done this on his own. Had he been blind to the symptoms? Had they all not seen the potential dangers of a Mordan ruled by angels?
“You say your way is righteous,” Jerico said. He stood tall and lifted his shield. “You say you understand the truth of the gods. I say you are liars and cowards. I say you have elevated yourselves above those you were meant to serve, and have confused pride and arrogance for loyalty. Come, prove to me your supposed truth, you bastards. I’m right here, and I say you’re full of shit.”
The two other fallen looked to their leader. Bathala clutched his sword in both hands and pressed its bone hilt to his lips.
“Not all are capable of seeing wisdom in this life,” he said. “May you find it in the hereafter.”
The fallen to his right rotated mid-air and then dove, black wings fluttering, sword leading. Jerico braced his legs and flexed the muscles of his arms. He had stood against gods. These broken angels would mean nothing. The sword struck his shield, the impact jarring all the way up to his elbow, but the shield held firm. Next came the fallen’s body itself, his momentum carrying him onward. Light swelled across his shield’s surface, and within that holy power Jerico felt Ashhur’s rage. His feet skidded, his heels dug grooves into the soft earth. A primal, wordless cry roared from deep within his chest. He would not be moved. His foe’s bones broke. The twisted sword shattered.
With one last flare of light, the fallen collapsed into the earthen groove Jerico’s feet had carved, dead.
“Wisdom,” Jerico shouted to the remaining two. “Here is your wisdom. It lies bloody in an open grave.”
The fallen dove in unison, swords out and hungry. As their black wings spiraled, Jerico braced himself. He feared he couldn’t take them on simultaneously, not with raw strength against strength, but what other choice did he have? He couldn’t outmaneuver them, not with their wings. He had to endure, he had to be the stone that would not break. Ashhur’s anger washed over him, and he prayed that would be enough.
For a moment there was a strange calm. The fallen’s movements were slow and calculated. They did not attempt to collide, only flash past him while swinging their weapons. His mace parried one, his shield blocked the other. Jerico spun on his heels, forced to track the constant shifts in direction as they looped back up and around for another pass. Another hit on his shield, hard enough to leave his arm numb. He dropped to one knee to duck underneath a swing, and though he tried to clip the fallen with Bonebreaker, he missed by mere inches.
Up and around, coming in for another pass. They would wear him down, using their constant plummets from the sky to add strength to their attacks so they would never tire. He had to bring them low and keep them low. Had to surprise them.
“Were you watching at Veldaren?” he asked, turning his head to the side when another swipe clanged off the center of his shield. “Do you remember the siege of Mordeina?”
The
two fallen joined for a singular attack, Bathala hovering slightly above his partner as they dove with swords leading. A tired grin crossed Jerico’s face.
“I guess not.” He lifted his shield to greet them, a single word screaming off his tongue. “Elholad!”
A glowing replica of his shield flashed off its surface and grew, becoming a wall of light. The fallen angels slammed into it, their pained screams cut short as they ricocheted off to either side. Feathers scattered. Their bodies rolled, and the thin bones of their wings snapped.
Jerico gave them no quarter. Before the nearest could even rise to his feet, Bonebreaker came smashing down, caving in his chest. He turned, his mace twirling in his hand, and faced Bathala.
“Wisdom,” Jerico said. “I’m still waiting to see it.”
Bathala’s wings curled together behind his back. One remained at an awkward tilt from the broken bones. There was no hiding the pain on the fallen’s face, and that pain seemed to amplify the rage he had attempted to deny with his constant vomit of ‘wisdom’ and ‘understanding’.
“You are wretched!” he screamed. “You are sinful and stubborn and deserve the fire Karak would bathe you in!”
“I thought you wanted to spare me Karak’s fire.”
Bathala cut the air with his sword. “I would see all of Dezrel bathed in Karak’s cleansing fire if it brought this world peace. Your imperfections are monumental. Your failures are legion. To have your kind among us in the eternal lands is an insult too far. If Ashhur is not wise enough to see it, then let Karak be the one strong enough to speak that truth.”
There it is, Jerico thought as he approached the angel with Bonebreaker slowly rotating in his hand. Their true face. Even now, you whisper into their ears, don’t you, Karak?
Yet again, Karak had poisoned what was once beautiful. Yet again, Ashhur’s followers would bleed to make it right.
The King of the Fallen Page 11
