The King of the Fallen

by David Dalglish

  “Wouldn’t you be?” he whispered back. “Ever since the Night of Black Wings they’ve been slobbering for the chance to kill their brethren. Now the war resumes, and these three are stuck at home guarding...well, we’re not sure yet what they’re guarding but I doubt it is as appealing as murdering Ashhur’s angels.”

  Veliana drew her daggers. “An interesting idea. Let’s go find out for ourselves.”

  His comrade led the way, sprinting around the corner as fast as her legs could carry her. Surprise was their best weapon, and the three fallen were so deeply absorbed in their own conversation that they didn’t realize the danger they were in.

  Veliana crossed the span in a heartbeat and lunged at the nearest angel with both daggers leading. Violet flame surrounded the blades, enhanced by Vel’s minor skill in magic. Deathmask raised his arms, words of a spell rambling off his tongue. When the three fallen turned, he dropped his arms, wrapping all three angels in an orb of pure darkness.

  Blinded and confused, they were defenseless against Veliana’s attack. She dove straight into the orb. Deathmask lost sight of her when she vanished into the spherical darkness. He heard the sound of metal striking metal, heard a pained cry, and then out the other side Veliana emerged, blood dripping from her naked daggers.

  Two angels flew skyward out from the orb, rendering it no longer useful. Deathmask banished it with a flick of his fingers. Its disappearance revealed the third angel lying dead on the ground, his throat and face hacked to bits.

  Get down here, Deathmask thought as the two fallen attempted to fly beyond reach of spell and blade. He hooked his fingers into the necessary shapes. Matching hands made of pure shadow formed upon the two nearby rooftops. The hands lunged upward like those of a giant. Each of their six fingers slammed together, clapping about an angel between them. Deathmask laughed. Easy as killing a fly. Though unlike a fly, the angel shrieked at the horrid pain, still alive as he fell, the hollow bones of his wings snapped.

  Anger replaced caution for the third fallen. He looped around, his sword gripped tightly in both hands. Veliana returned to Deathmask’s side, standing guard before him while he readied another spell.

  “I can’t slow him,” she said.

  “Then get out of his way.”

  The fallen angel barreled toward them in a dive, his speed rivaling that of a hawk or eagle. He weaved slightly side to side, attempting to dodge any potential projectiles. Deathmask hurled nothing at him; he kept his spell readied, the dark magic swirling about his right hand. The angel would have to pull up right before contact, or he’d splatter himself upon the street.

  Deathmask’s legs tensed, and right before impact he dove left while Veliana dove right. The fallen angel sliced through the air, his sword missing Deathmask’s shoulder by the width of a hair.

  Momentum carried the angel forward, but he arced his back and curled his wings, looping himself up and around to greatly reduce his speed. The move also positioned him right above Deathmask. It was exactly the maneuver he’d anticipated. Deathmask dropped to his back, his hands his extended, his mouth locked into a grin.

  “Predictable.”

  A tremendous bolt of shadow shot from his palm. It intercepted the descending angel, cracking into his chest with the force of a boulder. He let out a ragged shriek when his armor crunched inward and the shredded metal pierced his skin. His trajectory shifted, and the moment he landed unevenly on his feet, Veliana was upon him. Two quick thrusts with her dagger pierced his heart, dropping him.

  “Nicely done,” Deathmask said, pushing himself back to his feet. He wiped at the dust and dirt clinging to his robe. “Though perhaps wait for me to open with a spell next time before rushing after our foes?”

  “And give away my approach?” She wiped blood off her daggers and slid them into their sheaths. “You have magic that can hit far in the air. I don’t.”

  “Fair enough.” He chuckled and walked to the garden entrance, then spun about. With a low bow, he swept his arm toward the opening.

  “After you, milady.”

  They entered the gardens, which of course were overly extravagant, meant to impress upon visitors the wealth of the kingdom. Statues of two dozen kings and queens were cut from marble to flank the initial pathway, their haughty eyes judging who entered the garden proper. They passed through a second archway, four cherubic angels wielding bows standing atop it to keep guard. At one point, the sight might have been cute or disarming. Nowadays it just felt grotesque.

  “There’s something familiar about this place,” Deathmask said as he walked a stone pathway through hedges that grew all the way up to his shoulders.

  “It’s the royal gardens,” Veliana said. “Of course it’s familiar. I’m sure we’ve been here before. Likely for some social nonsense while re-establishing the Ash Guild. It’s been a long five years.”

  He shook his head. No, that was too simple an explanation. Something else tugged at his mind, a remembrance of something from years ago. When they first arrived at Mordeina...

  “Azariah flew with nearly every fallen angel at his disposal,” he said, his eyes sweeping the area. Most of the flowers were wilting from the chill that heralded winter’s arrival in the coming months. Lattice partitioned the grounds into dozens of walkways, the white-painted wood covered with vines. Stone benches and stools filled each passage, positioned so it seemed there were a near limitless stretch of private areas to converse, or for the brave, perform more intimate acts during parties and events.

  “So why leave a few behind to guard an insignificant garden?” Veliana asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Though he chose no specific path, it seemed all stone walkways inevitably led to the stone fountain in the center of the garden. Deathmask paused before it. Carved as decoration was a leaping deer positioned above an open oyster. Water flowed all around it, and when Deathmask checked, he found little glowing orbs, enchanted to ensure the water continued to flow from some unseen reservoir. He wondered if Aurelia or Tarlak might be responsible for that little bit of craftwork.

  What was key, though, was how new it felt compared to the rest of the garden. Why was this fountain so novel? And again, why would Azariah have positioned guards to protect its entrance? Azariah was hardly sentimental toward gardens...

  “Death, here,” Veliana called. She was on the opposite side of the fountain, and kneeling over one of the pathway steps. When he joined her, he saw a rune carved into the stone.

  “Do you know what it is for?” she asked.

  Deathmask frowned. It was magical, that much was obvious, but he didn’t recognize its origin. It didn’t feel quite right on its own, and by itself the squiggly marks meant nothing. However, now he knew what he was looking for, he paced the other pathways. Sure enough, he found several more runes, all chiseled into the surface of the stone. By the fifth, Deathmask realized why the symbols meant nothing to him. Each rune was a piece of one grander symbol.

  Deathmask returned to the runes he’d already discovered, piecing their shapes together in his mind.

  “A lion,” he said after analyzing the eighth, this one cut into a stone and hidden underneath a bush. “Karak’s lion. But why?”

  Each rune was positioned equidistant from that center fountain. Its importance was key, but why? Its newness called to him. As if the old had been recently destroyed, and this deer been its replacement. Everywhere he looked he found more runes, painstakingly cut into stone. Pieces of the Lion, but this wouldn’t summon Karak, nor open a gate to his Abyss...

  Realization struck him. Deathmask had not seen its creation all those years ago, nor had Veliana, but they had seen the results. His lips stretched into a wide grin.

  “Rakkar,” he whispered, quietly enough not even Veliana could hear him. “You damn foolish angel. Are you so desperate and shallow you would reach to your inferiors for ideas?”

  “What is it?” Veliana asked, trudging over from locating the ninth
of these mysterious runes.

  Deathmask brushed his cheek with his fingertips, the lightest touch for the darkest memory. Though Roand the Flame had artfully scarred his face, as had Tarlak under the mad wizard’s guidance, there had been another man who wielded fire against him and had managed to leave a set of scars. A delusional priest who had declared himself Melorak, Karak made flesh.

  He gestured around him. “This garden,, these runes. Azariah is setting things in place in case he loses his upcoming battle against Ahaesarus. If he retreats to Mordeina, this will be his backup plan. It is from here he will summon his final defense of a city he so desperately wishes to rule.” He pointed to the fountain. “And it’ll spring to life right here, in the same place as the old. It’s almost ambitious enough to leave me impressed.”

  Veliana crossed her arms and glared at him. “You’re being purposefully vague.”

  “I know. Now hand me your dagger.”

  “Why?” she asked, her left eyebrow arced to the top of her forehead.

  Deathmask’s grin spread ear to ear. “Because I have some carving to do. When Azariah attempts to use these runes and this garden for his magnificent display, I’m going to steal it, ruin it, and then laugh my goddamn ass off. Trust me, Vel. This is going to be glorious.”

  17

  The excitement that spread throughout the army was palpable. Aurelia couldn’t deny feeling it herself. She marched alongside her husband, as ever near the front of the teeming mass. The hills steadily flattened as the terrain shifted closer to the grasslands of Mordeina. To head directly toward the capital after fleeing it mere weeks before was almost hard to believe, but multiple scouts from Ahaesarus’s army had been coordinating with theirs, which hopefully would lead to an eventual meeting of forces. Rumor had it they would officially link up tomorrow.

  “It’s gonna be so damn nice,” Harruq said. Sweat trickled from his forehead as he marched. Winter might have been approaching, but it hadn’t arrived yet, and her husband’s armor wasn’t ideal for travel.

  “What will?” she asked.

  “Letting someone else be in charge.”

  Aurelia brushed her fingers across his neck, whispering faint words of magic. Frost wafted off her fingers, blue mist curled about his head. He shivered from the cold, then blew a kiss her way.

  “Thanks,” he said, his face losing a little bit of redness.

  They stopped to rest at midday, though none appeared eager to linger, unlike previous days. Aurelia crafted a trio of chairs out of lumps of earth for Harruq, Tarlak, and herself to sit in, positioned a few hundred feet away from the rest of the army. Sitting back, she watched all those soldiers filling their own bellies, some wearing expectant grins on their faces.

  She prayed their optimism wasn’t unfounded. From what they’d learned, Ahaesarus had approximately four hundred angels flying under his command, along with six thousand beast-men he’d forcibly conscripted. The how or why remained elusive, since none of the scouts were willing to reveal more information than the fact that the beast-men were fierce fighters and could be trusted to obey.

  Obey. Aurelia’s stomach twisted, and it had nothing to do with the bland biscuits she forced herself to eat. She knew the beast-men had crossed the Gihon River on a mission of conquest. Ahaesarus had taken one-third of his angels to the Castle of the Yellow Rose to oppose them, and that act had spared them the curse Ashhur inflicted upon Azariah and the rest of their kind. Preliminary reports suggested that rescue had come far too late, however. Hundreds of innocents, slain. If that were the case, why did the beast-men travel with the angels? Were they prisoners? Slaves? Or was Ahaesarus willing to overlook their slaughter if they fought in his name?

  “Looks like we’ve got another messenger,” Harruq said. He pointed to a distant pair of white wings. “Coming in every few hours now. Bet even Ahaesarus is excited to see us.”

  “I’ll signal him over,” Tarlak said, having already finished his meal. He stood, clapped his hands together, and then lifted them skyward. A bolt of flame shot from his fingertips, showering multi-colored sparks every direction. It was a far less dangerous, and much more showy, spell than one he might use in battle. The angelic scout noticed and veered toward them.

  “We go days without any word, and now you bug us every other hour,” Tarlak said once the angel landed. “I suppose all or nothing is just how it goes with you angels.”

  “I wish I had more time to share in jests,” the angel said. He was slender for their kind, with brown eyes and extremely dark hair. Aurelia did not recognize him, but as usual, he recognized them, the heroes of the Eschaton. “Ahaesarus sent me with a warning. The army of Devlimar finally marches, and there is no doubt to their destination.”

  “About time,” Harruq said, punching his fists together. “That bastard finally tired of hiding out behind his golden walls?”

  The angel dipped his head. “It seems he has. I wished to inform you of this in case we inadequately gauged their movements. By flight alone they could harry you before we meet, but it seems they lag behind to accompany their human and undead forces. Even so, we shall patrol the airspace between us as an additional measure of safety. Ensure your forces are ready, and do not anticipate any rest when they meet up with our army. The deciding battle approaches.”

  And with that, he departed. Tarlak scratched at his goatee as he watched him fly.

  “Not much we can do to protect ourselves from the fallen that we aren’t already doing,” he said. “A night raid by some advanced fliers is within the realm of possibility, though. We’ll make sure we camp close together, maybe post a few more guards than usual. Qurrah and Tess both seem like night people, so maybe we can get them to nap a bit and do some patrols themselves.”

  “I’ll go spread the word,” Harruq said. He stretched sore muscles and groaned. “Gods damn it all, I am so tired of marching.”

  Aurelia poked him in the stomach. “Did all that time in Mordeina as the king’s helper turn you soft?”

  “If anyone turned me soft, Aurry, it’s you.”

  “Really now?” She shot him a wink. “I thought I caused quite the opposite reaction.”

  “Pack it up, the both of you,” Tarlak snorted. “We’ve still got dozens of miles to cross.”

  Knowing there was potential for an ambush led the army to more carefully decide on where they might camp for the night, even though it cost them a potential hour of two of marching, Aurelia insisted they set up just inside the dense forest whose eastern edge they’d skirted for several miles.

  “Setting up camp in the woodland is a complete pain,” Harruq said when she proposed the idea. “And no one likes sleeping on roots and underbrush.”

  “The forest has a spring for water,” Aurelia had insisted. “And we camp just at the boundary. If the fallen attack, we can retreat beneath the branches and remove their flight advantage.”

  “Better here than the open fields,” Tarlak agreed, ending the discussion. The army settled down, beginning the laborious process of starting cook fires, pitching tents, and raking aside whatever rocks and twigs might interfere with a decent night’s sleep. Aurelia had often broken the ground with her magic to summon a stream, but thankfully the location of the spring removed that need. Exhaustion clung to her like spiderwebs. She told herself it was only nerves for the coming battle that filled her stomach with a nameless dread.

  That dread only magnified tenfold when a trio of black wings marked the eastern sky.

  “Well isn’t today an exciting day,” Harruq grumbled. He and Aurelia had been watching the sunset when murmurs of the fallen angels’ approach reached their ears.

  “It’s not an attack,” Aurelia said. “What then? A parley?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  They joined Tarlak, Qurrah, and Tessanna atop a gentle hill overlooking the camp. Several dozen soldiers formed a ring about them, more a show of support than any real strength. Aurelia knew that with fou
r spellcasters, they could easily obliterate a mere three fallen should they try anything foolish. Head high and hands sparkling with magic, she watched the trio land a respectful distance away, slightly below them on the hill. Aurelia recognized the middle fallen, a muscle-bound angel with a sword nearly as big as he was. He dipped his head in respect, a gesture that surprised her.

  “I wish to speak with the Godslayer,” Ezekai said.

  Harruq stepped forward. “Well, I’m here. Speak away.”

  “Alone,” Ezekai said, and crossed his arms. “It concerns a truce...and your daughter.”

  Aurelia’s lingering dread magnified into horror that tightened her stomach into knots and looped iron chains about her throat. Harruq glanced her way, the question obvious on his face.

  “Leave us be,” Aurelia shouted to the soldiers surrounding them. “We must speak matters of politics.”

  The others reluctantly scattered until it was only the five members of the Eschaton that remained before the fallen. Aurelia took her husband’s hand in hers and she squeezed, trying in vain to hold back the panic threatening to overwhelm her. Their daughter? Why would Azariah wish to speak of Aubrienna?

  “Not quite alone, but this is as close as it’s going to get,” Harruq said. “Now you best explain yourself before I ask all my very talented and magically gifted friends to turn your body into seven kinds of mush.”

  Ezekai smirked. It was profoundly ugly. “I would not recommend doing so, half-orc. Not if you wish to spare the life of Aubrienna Tun.”

  “Aubby’s safe with us,” Aurelia lied. “Your threats mean nothing.”

  “No more games and illusions,” the angel said with a shake of his head. “I come with terms. They are fair, and just, and I strongly suggest you accept them.” Aurelia’s fingernails dug into her husband’s palm. It couldn’t be. Her fears were exaggerated. Her mind was leaping to the worst conclusion. That’s all.