The King of the Fallen

by David Dalglish

  “Ready your armor and weapons. And have everyone meet me on the ground floor.”

  “And the children?”

  Years of training allowed his face to remain perfectly passive. “Keep them in their room, and hang blankets over the windows. They mustn’t see what happens next.”

  Samar left. Lathaar stared at the door, the weight of dozens of lives settling upon his shoulders as he calmly strapped on his platemail. His whole life, he had endured such a burden. For years he’d thought himself the last surviving paladin of Ashhur, until he met Jerico. He’d stood against Karak’s forces, the undead of the prophet Velixar, even waged war on the demons of Thulos. From the ashes and rubble, he’d rebuilt the Citadel. Every step of his life was a struggle. His entire past was a trail of blood and tears.

  When he finished dressing, Lathaar took one last look out the window. The fallen angels surrounded the tower, and though their weapons were drawn, they made no move to attack. They wanted to talk, as expected. Azariah hovered at their forefront. Lathaar knew the angel well enough to anticipate his next move. Azariah believed himself so wise, so noble. Lathaar prayed that before the day was done, he’d be able to show the angel just how wretched he truly was.

  “Are you with me still?” Lathaar whispered to his god. He turned his back to the window. “Because we sure could use you right now.”

  He descended to the first floor, which was built explicitly for battle. The entry door was narrow, yet the space immediately beyond was wide and curving. Barging into the Citadel would mean charging into a concave of defenders. The problem was, those defenders were young and inexperienced. Only a few, such as Samar, Mal, and Elrath, had tasted battle. And even then, they’d known only capture and torture.

  A handful of students lingered in the wide room, over-turning a pair of tables to use as barricades. Lathaar nodded to them, then gestured for one, the tall, dark-haired Mal, to come closer.

  “Shut the door behind me,” he said.

  “You’re going out there?” Mal asked, eyes bulging.

  “Only to talk, not to fight. As insane as it sounds, I expect Azariah to try to do this honorably. If I can, I’ll stall for time.”

  “What good will time do us?” asked Elrath, stepping up beside him. The second-oldest student in the Citadel was a shorter man, but stocky with muscle and skilled with the use of a blade. His dark hair was pulled back from his face in a stubby ponytail. “No one is coming to rescue us. No one will save us. We’re on our own.”

  Lathaar grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him close.

  “Dozens of fallen angels are here, as well as Azariah himself,” Lathaar said, his voice an angry whisper. “And if they’re here, then they’re not causing trouble elsewhere. Our fate may not change with an extra day, but how many innocents flee to Ker even as we speak? An extra day may mean life and death for them, so that’s why I’m going out there. All we do, we do for others. Never forget that. Now go put on your damn armor.”

  Elrath’s face blushed a deep red. “Yes sir.”

  Lathaar didn’t watch him leave. Couldn’t focus on that now. Over the years, when times were quiet and the tower halls dark, Jerico and Lathaar had discussed their students’ lack of faith. It had worried and perplexed them both with equal measure. How could one lack faith in Ashhur when his angels watched over the land, and the god had saved them from Thulos’s annihilation? Now he felt that same worry, only a thousand times worse. Those angels, who were meant to inspire faith, now surrounded the tower, their skin ashen, their wings black and foreboding. What did it matter if they were saved from Thulos if they then must bend the knee to Azariah’s crown of bone?

  They’ll stand strong with you, Lathaar thought. Hold faith in them.

  “Remember, shut and locked,” he told Mal, then stepped out to speak with the king of the fallen.

  The angels had landed. Lathaar put their numbers at nearly one hundred, forming a ring about the Citadel with their wings barely touching one another. Their brittle feathers bristled despite no wind blowing. Lathaar could feel their revulsion. Had they been corrupted so quickly that the mere sight of a paladin of Ashhur sickened them? Their angry eyes stared at him, their gazes like pinpricks on his skin. Pretending not to notice or care, he walked with his head held high until he was several dozen feet from the Citadel door and then lifted his arms. The silence weighed heavily upon him. The angels only glared.

  Azariah stepped up to him and pulled back his lips into a grin, exposing his jagged, bloodstained teeth.

  “I would greet you, but you are no longer welcome guests to the Citadel,” Lathaar said. “For this is a house of Ashhur, and Ashhur no longer calls you his beloved.”

  “Beloved,” Azariah said. “Is that what you are, Lathaar? Beloved of Ashhur? Why is that?”

  “Because I kept the faith even amid the hardships.”

  “Is that what you believe? Ashhur’s loyalty was because of your faith?” The angel king shook his head. “You were an excellent murderer, Lathaar. A soldier who killed all that Ashhur deemed worthy of death.”

  “Do not belittle my love and faith.”

  Azariah stepped closer and his raised his voice for all to hear.

  “Tell me, Lathaar, were you gifted the greatest signs of love and faith during moments of teaching and mercy, or on the battlefield?”

  They both knew the answer. It was true that Lathaar’s blade of pure light, the Elholad, was not an instrument of mercy, but that felt like such an over-simplification, a bastardization of Lathaar’s responsibilities.

  Realization struck him, and the comparison that he now saw felt like ice to his veins. The way Azariah mocked him, and belittled his faith…it was just like speaking with Velixar.

  “I am not here to argue matters of faith with one of Ashhur’s fallen,” Lathaar said. “Why are you here, angel?”

  “You know why I am here. The children. Hand them over to me if you wish for you and your students to live.”

  Lathaar did his best to act as if he were confused, if not annoyed, while inside his chest his heart kicked into double time.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Azariah didn’t look the slightest bit convinced. “The boy king, and the Godslayer’s daughter. They’re both here. Hand them over, willingly, and I will show you mercy. I hold faith that, given time and meditation, you will reach the same realizations regarding Ashhur’s incomplete wisdom. I would give you a chance to observe the changes to Dezrel I will bring. But if you force me to assault these walls, I will spare not a soul. My mercy is not that deep.”

  Lathaar bit down a curse. Tarlak was supposed to have been using his magic to convince Azariah the children were with their army and not here. The wizard had failed somehow, that or Azariah’s magic was stronger than they believed. Whatever the reason, this was the worst possible outcome. If Azariah had come solely aiming to convert the Citadel’s students, then he could have stalled for time. The angels might have only quarantined the Citadel to keep them out of the current conflict, which also would have been just fine with him. But if Azariah knew the children were there…

  “We won’t hand them over,” Lathaar said. “We’ll fight you to our last breath. You’ll be attacking one of the most holy sites of Ashhur’s faithful, in a building made for war. You will lose many of your fallen, Azariah, numbers you will never replace. You are already king. What does it matter if Gregory lives? Do you truly think the nobles will need him as an excuse to rebel against your tyranny?”

  He never could have predicted the rage that flooded through Azariah’s entire being. He snarled, baring his jagged teeth. Black feathers fluttered loose from his shivering wings.

  “It is not the boy’s position I care for,” he said. “It is the use I have planned for them that matters.”

  Lathaar felt a wretched, bitter taste settle across the back of his tongue.

  “Hostages,” he said. “You need hostages.”r />
  “The Godslayer and his elven wife will never raise hands against me if I hold a dagger to Aubrienna’s throat. Now enough of this banter, paladin. You know my terms. Hand the children over, or watch as I bleed the life out of your every student. You will die last, that I promise you, both you and Jerico. Now make your choice.”

  The angel thought Jerico was with them. Lathaar wondered if that was for the best, or if it merely showed how confident the angels were in their attack. They believed that if Jerico was at his side, they could still win? Nothing could move his friend when his shield was high and his faith strong.

  “I will speak with my friends,” Lathaar said. Even if it were only minutes, he would buy what time he could. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  Lathaar returned to the Citadel. Its thick door creaked open as he approached. He stepped inside to find all his students gathered together, their weapons readied and their bodies protected with chainmail. None had been outfitted with platemail yet. Too young. Too inexperienced. They fell into a fearful silence at his arrival.

  “Well?” Mal asked. “What do they want?”

  “They want the children,” Lathaar said. “If we hand them over, Azariah claims he’ll spare our lives.”

  “So…what do we do?” Samar asked.

  It took Lathaar a long moment to realize the question was serious. He looked at the young man and shook his head. His resolve hardened. A lifetime of war settled over his mind.

  “What do we do?” he echoed. “We do what we must. We do what I have always done throughout my life. We draw our swords, we ready our shields, and we stand before the storm. We cry our voices to Ashhur and demand the strength we need from our beloved god.”

  “They’ll kill us,” Samar said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

  “They might,” Lathaar said softly. He looked about the room, meeting the eyes of his students. He would be strong for them if he must. Let them see his ardent belief. And in them, he saw the future. He saw hope.

  “I have risked my life for others, and every time I drew my sword, I knew it might be my last. Not once have I regretted it. I will fight for others on this dark world. I will bleed and die so others might live, might know joy and peace. You may not feel it, you may not believe it yet, but that same strength resides in you. This world, it is a world of miracles, is it not? Have we not seen it again and again? I have seen the sky split open. I have spoken with gods. I have seen life given to the dead, and I have held strong when all the world would call me doomed. Azariah believes us doomed yet again, but do you know what I say? Raise your weapons. Sing praise in your hearts. We will stand. Do you hear me, my students? We. Will. Stand.”

  Raise their weapons they did. The blue-white light of Ashhur shone off naked steel, a reflection of their faith, yet it was so faint. These young men were nervous, terrified. Lathaar wished he could give them his confidence, his years of experience, but that went counter to the very hope of a land of angels had once promised. Such brutal lives were meant to no longer be necessary. Yet in the end, as always, the darkness came. Lathaar drew his swords and let their gleam shine upon them all.

  “Until the end,” he said to a dead silent room.

  Lathaar returned to the door and pulled it open. Daylight shone upon him. He looked to the ring of fallen angels. Once their protectors, now their foes.

  “We have your answer!” he shouted to them. They readied their weapons. Ashhur’s warning cried deep in Lathaar’s mind, but he only smiled.

  “We will not surrender!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “We will—”

  A sharp pain pierced his side. His muscles locked up, and his neck arched from the constriction. It made no sense. His back. The pain came from his back. His legs went weak, when he felt a tugging sensation. The world pitched unevenly, and he dropped to his knees. Blood poured down his side. Hardly a new sensation, but it shocked him nonetheless. He’d been stabbed. Though he should be angry, he felt only surprise and bewilderment. He slowly turned his head.

  Samar stood with bloody sword in hand. He looked like a frightened ghost.

  “Why?” Lathaar croaked. Even saying that much was suddenly difficult.

  None spoke. The other students were pale-faced and wide-eyed. Even the fallen angels watched with their mouths hanging open. An army of angels, and a Citadel of students, and yet Lathaar bled out in what seemed the quietest place in all of Dezrel.

  And in that dead silence, the first sound to pierce through to torment his ears was Azariah’s uncontrollable laughter.

  “What the fuck?” one of the students shouted. Lathaar couldn’t make out who. His hearing was starting to grow fuzzy.

  “Do you want us all to die?” Samar asked. “There’s what, forty of us? And we should all throw our lives away for two damn kids? It doesn’t matter what we do. They’ll kill us, all of us. Now go get them, or I will.”

  Still none moved. Samar swore and bounded up the stairs. Lathaar collapsed onto his stomach, his platemail feeling impossibly heavy.

  Keep calm, he thought. Keep…calm…

  He still had his prayers. He still had Ashhur’s healing magic. If he could recover, he could rally the students and prevent this grand betrayal. Surely Samar was alone in his cowardice.

  Wasn’t he?

  Lathaar’s hand settled over the wound, and he whispered words a prayer. He demanded his god mend the flesh and sew muscle back together as if it were never torn. Light shone across his fingers. A soft ringing of distant bells calmed his mind. Already his pain started to fade.

  Samar returned down the steps dragging Gregory and Aubrienna each by the hand. Upon seeing Lathaar, his eyes spread wide and he shouted out a curse.

  “Stop!” he screamed, releasing the children to re-draw his sword. Lathaar lifted his other hand in a meager protest. Samar ran, legs fueled by panic, arms strengthened by fear.

  Down came the blade.

  The sharp pain was marked by the screaming of the children. Lathaar gasped and rolled away from him, momentum carrying him out the Citadel and onto the pale grass. He lay there, jaw clenched tightly shut as he pressed his hand against his neck.

  It wasn’t a clean cut. Though Samar likely meant to open his throat, the blade had missed his bronchial tube. Based on the blood poured against his hand, it didn’t matter. Lathaar pushed with every ounce of pressure his muscles could manage, trying to stem the flow. Another healing prayer floated through his groggy mind, but he couldn’t speak the words. He tried to tell himself it was because of his injuries, because moving his lips induced incredibly agony. It was a lie.

  Lathaar looked to his students and his heart broke in a way it never had in all his life.

  “We won’t do this,” someone shouted.

  “It’s too late now,” countered someone else. Weapons clanged together. Fighting? Who was fighting? He couldn’t see. Whoever it was, it ended quickly.

  “Then get out,” Samar said. “Go with them.”

  Lathaar lifted his head so he might see their identities. Elrath and Mal were the only ones to exit the tower in protest. They stood defiant, shoulders back and heads held high. Samar walked ahead of them, dragging Gregory and Aubrienna by the wrist.

  “We won’t go along with this,” Elrath told the angels. “We’d rather die.”

  “Die?” Azariah asked. The angel strode toward the Citadel, so close now that Lathaar could have smelled him if not for the overpowering odor of blood that filled his nose. “I made a promise. Your lives for the children, and I will not break that promise.” The bastard knelt down beside Lathaar. His sickly image blocked the sun, casting a shadow over his already fading vision. “Besides, your suffering is great enough. What more might I add? Only one person dies, and I will not be the one who killed him.”

  Lathaar wished he had a biting remark to offer. Jerico might have known a good one.

  The fallen angel’s wings spread wide as he wrapped his a
rms around a crying Aubrienna. Another lifted up Gregory. Samar quickly turned and fled back into the Citadel. Its reinforced door slammed shut with a rattle of wood and metal. No last remarks, no goodbyes. The fallen king took the skies, his horde of angels with him.

  Elrath and Mal, knelt over him, and he heard them faintly praying through their growing exhaustion and tears. Would that he could comfort them.

  Lathaar’s vision turned dark as the world rapidly departed him. He thought he’d feel more regret, more anguish, but his dying mind thought only of a promise made so very long ago.

  “Mira,” Lathaar whispered. “Are you still waiting?”

  The answer awaited his final breath. He closed his eyes, released his hand from his neck, and gave in.

  15

  Jerico awoke that morning with a sense of dread he could not shake, so he started north long before dawn. It seemed every few minutes he sent another prayer to Ashhur, begging for the safety of his friends.

  “We’ve survived so much,” he muttered to as dawn slipped into day. “We’ll survive this too, won’t we? With you at our sides?”

  He patted the shield on his back, but its sturdy heft was no comfort, not this day.

  Not long after midday he saw three men approaching from up ahead. As he closed the distance, he realized that two of the men were carrying the third between them, his arms draped over their shoulders. Dread told a thousand stories, but Jerico denied them all. He would not give in to wild thoughts when these three figures were still so far away.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t jog instead of walk. When he saw the way the third figure hung limp in the arms of the other two, the jog turned to a sprint. His fear disappeared, replaced by a vast emptiness. Jerico didn’t want to think at all. He didn’t want to believe.

  “Elrath?” he called when he was close enough to make out their features. “Mal? What…what happened?”

  The man they carried was Lathaar, stripped of his armor, down to a simple pair of bloodstained underclothes. He was still. So very still. The two young apprentices came to a halt before him, gasping for breath after carrying such dead weight.