The King of the Fallen

by David Dalglish

  Azariah stared at this half-breed being that had slain countless foes. Orcs, elves, undead, demons, fallen angels, even a god had fallen to his blades. Yet all his accomplishments were through the combined might of others. Celestia’s orcish curse melded with that of a faithful elf. Velixar’s swords and armor. Ashhur’s blessings to fight as his avatar against Thulos’s forces. It seemed all of Dezrel had conspired to create a perfect killing machine.

  And that killing machine would be undone by the love he felt for his daughter.

  “Stand still,” Azariah said, closing his eyes and summoning strands of magic from Celestia’s Weave.

  “What betrayal is this?” Jerico asked.

  “No betrayal,” Azariah said. “An assurance you perform no betrayal yourselves.”

  He stretched out his hands, and invisible waves of magic washed over Harruq. The spell was simple in nature but powerful in purpose: no illusion would endure its touch. This Harruq before him would be the real Harruq, real flesh, real bone, and not some trick of magic and light. Azariah held his breath, fully expecting to discover this was a replacement, some hapless soldier selected to be the half-orc’s sacrificial replacement. Instead, the magic passed, and Harruq remained unchanged.

  “Satisfied?” he asked, his left eyebrow crooking upward. “Now let my daughter go, damn it.”

  “Not yet,” Azariah said. “Not until the deed is done.”

  He looked to Ezekai, standing protectively nearby, and outstretched his hand. The angel drew a jagged blade and offered him the hilt. Azariah took it and swung the weight casually about. The air whistled from the sharpened blade’s passage.

  “I have thought often of your legacy,” Azariah said, settling the tip against Harruq’s throat. “Of how it deserves to end. Now prostrate yourself.”

  “I will not die kneeling,” Harruq said.

  “You would deny me?”

  “You would change the terms of our deal? My life for theirs. Nothing says I give it while pleading, begging, or worshiping you on my knees.”

  Both children cried out as the fallen angels holding them pressed their knives hard enough against their skin to draw blood.

  “Refusal puts the children at risk,” Azariah said. Aurelia spoke up before her rattled husband might answer.

  Aurelia scowled through the tears in her eyes and pointed a sparking finger his way. “The only thing keeping me from tearing this entire clearing apart with my magic is knowing it will cost me the life of my daughter,” she declared. “But if you were to convince me her life is already forfeit...”

  Despite his warning, the elf let a brief flash of fire wash over her palms and. Azariah’s pride cried out at the insult, but he swallowed it down. There was no reason to endanger what was already in place. Numbers were drastically on his side, but the elf’s magic was legendary. Victory was the purpose of this night, not mutual self-destruction.

  “So be it,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder, to the fallen holding Aubrienna. The little elf girl was softly crying. “Open your eyes,” he told her. “There is something you must witness.”

  Harruq took a step closer, his eyes widening.

  “You bastard.”

  “You will watch!” Azariah screamed to Aubrienna, his temper finally out of control. “You will witness the fate of those who remain forever locked in the past. You will learn from it, child. You will learn.” He pressed the sword harder against Harruq’s throat, and he met the fierce gaze of those brown eyes. “You will learn that no matter how many great and noble deeds you accomplish in your life, you are promised nothing, not even your next breath. A million victories mean nothing if you insult gods and kings. It only leads to despair.”

  Harruq lifted his chin, pushing his own throat into the blade. Blood dribbled down his neck.

  “The life I go to next is not the one I deserve,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft and thoughtful. “But of my life, and my many sins, I know this here and now is the one act which atones for it all.”

  There was a certainty to his words that unnerved Azariah, an unwavering faith that reminded him of that wretched nameless farmer who had stepped from the crowd to demand the angels to fall.

  “On the day I die, both gods will throw open their gates and beg for the privilege of my soul gracing their presence,” Azariah said. “Go to whichever god will take you, Harruq Tun, and await my celebrated return.”

  Azariah sliced open the half-orc’s throat. Blood gushed across them both, its shade of crimson the only color that shone with any sort of vibrancy to Azariah’s cursed eyes. It was beautiful. So beautiful. Harruq wobbled, and despite his insistence otherwise, he slumped to his knees. Aurelia quietly sobbed; the two children wailed.

  Harruq fought against blood and mortal injury to stand. His legs betrayed him, and he dropped onto his back. He spoke with a croaking voice as his hands clutched at his neck. Blood poured across his gray fingers.

  “But a moment,” he said. “I leave...but a moment...”

  He fell still.

  A wave of pleasure shivered through Azariah’s limbs and shook feathers from his wings. He nodded to the fallen, and they released Gregory and Aubrienna. The children sprinted past the lifeless corpse. Aurelia knelt and opened her arms. Aubrienna slammed into her mother, who wrapped her in a desperate embrace and held onto her for dear life. Jerico accepted Gregory into his free hand, the other still holding Harruq’s twin swords.

  The air chilled, and a strange silence overcame the clearing. The only noise was the howl of the wind blowing through the portal and the intermixed crying of the children.

  Jerico exited first. The portal crackled with power. Aurelia stood, her daughter’s face buried in her breast. Her walnut-colored eyes could not convey the true depth of her anger, but they did a damn admirable job.

  “I will kill you, angel,” she said. “I swear it on the souls of every single man and woman you’ve slaughtered.”

  “You are welcome to try,” Azariah said. “But I have witnessed the many threads of fate, and only the Godslayer possessed that right.”

  “Is that so?” she said, and despite her sorrow, despite her rage, she flashed him a grin that promised pain. “We shall see.”

  She departed through the portal. A sharp hiss of air marked its closing. The song of cicadas invaded the quiet, the only sound until Ezekai clapped his hands and joined Azariah’s side.

  “A fine trade, all things considered,” the fallen said. “Without the half-orc to bolster their ranks, Ahaesarus’s army will suffer greatly against our legions, whereas neither child shall hold any sway over the battlefield. Their spellcasters remain the biggest worry now, and I suspect Jerico will stay with them to protect from our aerial attacks rather than join the melee. That leaves the ground forces wanting for heroes.”

  Azariah nodded absently, his gaze never leaving the half-orc’s corpse. It was only after a long pause that he realized Ezekai had offered him his hand to retake his sword.

  “Shall I bury the body, or burn it?” Ezekai asked upon wiping clean his blade.

  “Leave it.”

  Ezekai didn’t question. He spread his wings, shouted an order, and together the collective fallen took to the air to rejoin the distant camped army. Only Azariah remained behind, transfixed by the corpse. Even when the cicadas and owls were his only company, he could not shake a deep, primal feeling of there being something amiss.

  We shall see.

  “There is no honor among sinful mortals,” he said, as if voicing justification for his doubts would make them valid. He knelt beside the body, which had already begun to stink, and pulled out Velixar’s spellbook from the satchel he’d sewn to his robes, so he might keep it with him at all times. It didn’t take long to find his desired spell, for he’d committed much of the book to memory. The amount of knowledge the First Man had accrued in his centuries of life was incredible, and not all of it was focused on the necromantic arts. This, howev
er, was very much Velixar’s specialty. After mentally rehearsing the words several times, Azariah placed his hands upon Harruq’s temples and closed his eyes.

  I must know, he thought before beginning the words of the spell. The ancient language flowed off his tongue. The power pulled from inside him, now a familiar strain after so much practice. Harruq was dead, and his soul already departed, but within the meat and organs lurked memories, and Azariah would see them. He would relive them.

  It felt like falling, a great plunge face first into the half-orc’s forehead. His senses shifted, altered, the life of another taking over so he lived it, breathed it, and acted it as if it were all his own.

  19

  “No!” Harruq shouted.

  He and Qurrah lurked on the outside of the camp. The half-orc’s outburst was loud enough that distant soldiers glanced their direction. Qurrah turned his back to them, pretending he and his brother were completely isolated instead of standing there in plain sight of most anyone.

  “No, you won’t,” Harruq said defiantly. “I won’t allow it. This isn’t up for debate.”

  Qurrah sighed. “You’re right. It’s not up for debate, but also not for the reason you believe.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “I know.”

  “My responsibility.”

  “I know.”

  His brother let out a long sigh and looked all about, as if seeking some foreign help for an argument he was already doomed to lose.

  “And you’re still going to do this, aren’t you?”

  Qurrah settled a hand on his brother’s shoulder. To most, Harruq was a monster of a man, but to Qurrah he was still the stubborn frightened child from their days on the streets of Veldaren. He might be taller and stronger, but not to his eyes. Not to his presence.

  “After everything I have done?” he said. “After what I have cost everyone? You know I am the right one to do this. Besides, you are mad if you think I will have Aubrienna return with no father waiting for her.”

  Harruq shoved Qurrah’s hand away. His jaw clenched and he balled his fists together, as if he could punch his way through the entire universe and find an acceptable future on the other side. There wasn’t one, though. Qurrah knew that. Strength and skill meant nothing here, not when the fallen held every possible advantage in this sick game.

  “Damn it,” Harruq finally muttered. “Gods and goddesses damn it, all of them. Why this? Why now? We were done, weren’t we? Thulos is dead. Velixar is dead. We fought our wars, and we buried our loved ones. This was supposed to be our time of peace, wasn’t it? When we got to be happy? What happened, Qurrah? Where did it all go wrong?”

  It was weird seeing his brother cry. Weirder still to know it was because Qurrah chose the right course of action. A nice change of pace considering their sordid past.

  “The world isn’t ready for peace,” he said. “Perhaps it never will be. But my mind is set, and when I go to Tarlak, we both know he’ll accept my sacrifice over yours. Coming to you first was to make this easy for all of us.”

  “I could change Tarlak’s mind,” Harruq said, and he grinned despite his tears. “I’m quite bigger than that goofball in yellow, you know.”

  “Please spare us all that indignity.”

  After a brief pause, Harruq lurched toward Qurrah, wrapped him in his arms, and held him close. Qurrah accepted it despite how awkward it made him feel. Such contact was always strange to him, and never did he truly believe he deserved it. His sins were numerous, after all...

  “All right, I’ll go tell Aurry your plan,” Harruq said as he pulled away. “Have you told Tess yet?”

  Qurrah swallowed down a stone the size of the moon in his throat.

  “No. Not yet.”

  A knowing look passed over his brother’s face, but instead of acknowledging it he just lightly punched Qurrah on the shoulder.

  “Good luck,” he said. And with that, he sauntered off, still wiping tears off his face.

  Qurrah lagged behind, needing a moment to recover. He wasn’t crying, but he could tell he was close. There could be no weakness in him, not now. He looked to the blue sky and wondered if Karak and Ashhur were up there watching them right now. Priests often spoke of the gods as benevolent parents, yet after so many years of war and destruction, Qurrah was beginning to think the gods were more akin to children poking anthills with sticks so they might watch the little creatures scatter and run.

  Tess was not among the teeming swell of human soldiers. Not that Qurrah was surprised by that fact; it was rare for her to be anywhere near other people for more than fleeting moments. And he could not blame her for that, because he was the same way. They both were far more accustomed to silence and solitude than life among the masses.

  He searched the perimeter of the encampment with only half-hearted urgency, pretending not to notice the occasional guard on patrol. Some glared, others tipped their heads in respect, but most just ignored him. His reputation among the people of Mordan was varied, and most often dreadful. By the Abyss, why shouldn’t they be unsure of his motives? It’s not like Qurrah didn’t question them himself.

  When he found her, it was an hour before sunset at most. The army had purposefully camped near the spring to resupply, and far upstream Tessanna sat in the fading grass with her feet dangling in the water. The shade of the trees hid her from the sun. How she wasn’t cold from its icy flow, he couldn’t begin to guess. Qurrah settled down beside her. He said not a word, merely taking her hand and enjoying the extended silence.

  “You have something to say. Is it about Aubrienna and Gregory?”

  “It is.”

  “You’re scared to tell me. This isn’t good, is it?” She leaned forward, hiding herself with her long hair. “Just tell me. I’ll keep silent.”

  And so he explained to her his plan. She listened quietly. When he finished, he need not ask for her opinion. The tears running down her face were answer enough.

  “And so you abandon me,” she said.

  “I’m not abandoning you.”

  “You are.” Said with it no anger, no hatred, just a tired finality. “Why must it be you, Qurrah? I know the answer you will give, but I deny it already. I hate it. I know it and hate it.”

  “But you know it’s true.”

  She turned her enormous black eyes his way. “The only true thing is that I lose you forever. Please, please, Qurrah, don’t do this to me. I can’t take this. I won’t survive.”

  Qurrah told himself to be strong. He told himself he was doing the right thing. Every inner voice rang hollow, and so he spoke the only truth he knew.

  “I cost my brother a daughter. The least I can do is save his other. A life for a life. Nothing in this world could be more fair.”

  “Fair? Fair?” She bolted to her feet, black fire swirling about her hands. “Fuck all that is fair. What of me, Qurrah? What of us? Must you carry guilt for Aullienna for the rest of your life? Are you never allowed to move on? Never allowed to pretend anything in this world, anything at all, is worth more than suffering under that burden?”

  “Truly?” Qurrah asked. He tried to keep the bite from his words and failed. “The last time you told me to deny the guilt I felt for Aullienna’s death, you put a knife in my hand and demanded I take Delysia’s life. That’s the cruel joke to this plight, Tess. I can’t kill my way out of this. I won’t make things equal with a lifetime of murders. Bloodshed leading to bloodshed leading to sorrow and yet even more bloodshed. Tonight I make it right. Tonight, at least I make it my own.”

  So often when Tessanna was overwhelmed she retreated into herself. She became a calm, hollow façade of a human being so that hurtful emotions did not break her. He thought she might do that now. Instead she laughed and cried simultaneously. Which was far worse.

  “And so you die, I break, and all the world rejoices,” she said. “Is that what happens? Shall that be how your brother tells the story? We’ll be hero
es. We’ll be redeemed. We’ll have found our salvation. I’d rather be damned, Qurrah. I’d rather be damned alongside you.”

  She took his hands and forced him to meet her gaze.

  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Please. Please, Qurrah. Don’t leave me.”

  “It will be but a moment,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “But a moment we are apart, the blink of an eye in the span of eternity.”

  He left her there, for to say any more, or hear another word, was to risk what little remained of his conviction.

  Tarlak rubbed his hands together. “It’s a good thing I’ve been practicing.”

  Qurrah stood before him at their camp, Harruq directly beside him. For reference, the yellow-garbed wizard had explained, as if he were painting a portrait...which he was, as a matter of fact.. The most accurate, realistic portrait imaginable.

  “Many lives are at risk,” Qurrah said. “Are you certain you are up to the task?”

  “If I can recreate my devilishly handsome self, this giant hulk of half-orc muscle will be a piece of cake.” Tarlak frowned, tilted his head to one side as he continued to analyze matters, then nodded happily. “Adjusting your height will be the most difficult part of all of this, plus adding in some additional mass. You two look similar enough that the real tricky stuff, the facial features, won’t require too much work.”

  “Then get on with it,” Qurrah said. “We do not have all night.”

  “More like an hour,” Harruq chipped in helpfully.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Tarlak clapped his hands together. “Let’s do this.”

  So began a steady procession of spells from the wizard. Qurrah closed his eyes and endured, surprised by the bursts of pain he felt with each new spell. Multiple times Tarlak had to remind him to relax his jaw or pull back his shoulders. Everything had to be perfect. Azariah would see right through something as simple and obvious as an illusion spell, so there would be no illusions. There would be no false magic. Bit by bit, using the polymorphic magic that had allowed him to remake Cecil’s body into his own, Tarlak crafted Qurrah into a perfect recreation of his brother.