The Prison of Angels

“And where’s that?”

Tarlak gestured behind him.

“All the way in the back. If there’s to be a fight, I’d prefer thirty thousand men be between me and it.”

The laughter helped ease their tensions. Closer and closer loomed the bridge, until at last Tarlak and Antonil rode together toward Bram’s army, a token guard on either side of them. Riding out to meet them was Lord Bram and his own personal squad of knights. Banners for either side flying high, Tarlak held his breath as his liege spoke.

“Greetings, King Bram,” Antonil said. “My friend. My ally. Once again I march to my homeland, to retake what the orcs have desecrated with their presence. Have you raised an army to join me in this quest?”

Bram shook his head, laughing.

“After how your last crusade went? No, Antonil, I prefer my soldiers alive, not dead.”

Tarlak noticed neither made mention of crossing the bridge. No doubt Antonil wanted Bram to offer it freely, and Bram wanted Antonil to ask no matter the answer he planned to give. The wizard let out a sigh. Politics. He hated it.

“Forgive me for my abruptness, but my time is short, and I have need of your bridge,” Antonil said. “Would you grant my men and I permission to cross?”

“No. I will not.”

Bram answered so smoothly, so quickly, that Tarlak could hardly believe it. He grabbed the side of Antonil’s cloak and tugged as the simple answer echoed throughout the camps.

“He’s lying,” Tarlak said softly, so no one else would hear.

“How do you know?”

Behind them, Antonil’s army was stirring, all of them expecting war, or at least some sort of skirmish for such blatant disrespect. Tarlak’s mind whirled.

“He’s too pleased with himself,” Tarlak insisted. “He’s testing you. He wants to know how you’ll respond.”

“How I’ll respond? So be it.” Antonil drew his sword, and he called out to Bram. “We are crossing, Bram. You have no stake in this, no right to deny me passage. I ride with thirty thousand, and if I must I can call forth a legion of angels. Do you still refuse?”

“I have the right of a sovereign lord to protect my borders,” shouted Bram. “But I see even after all this time you will never consider me as such. Move quickly through my lands, Antonil. Do not consider me friend or ally. You war against the orcs on your own.”

Bram turned about and barked a command. His army shifted so that the road between was clear. Without another word, the king rode over the bridge and vanished into the thick crowd of soldiers.

“Not very diplomatic of you,” Tarlak muttered as the generals readied their army to march.

“I’m sick of this,” Antonil said. “Here, back home, everywhere posturing and politics and betrayal. If he would refuse me, then fight me. If not, then don’t waste my time. I will not play his game.”

Man after my own heart, thought Tarlak.

As they rode across the Bloodbrick, Tarlak didn’t bother to tell his king that he had played along, whether he’d wanted to or not. Bram had his answer, knew exactly how Antonil viewed his army and his borders. And of course, he just had to mention the angels.

Stepping off the bridge and into Ker, Tarlak felt the tingling in his mind grow stronger. He glanced about, unsure of what exactly he was searching for but convinced he’d know it if he saw it. And then, to his left, he spotted the large dark eyes that belonged to only one woman in all of Dezrel. He stiffened atop his horse, their eyes met, and Tarlak felt a shiver run through him as Tessanna offered him the slightest of smiles. A distant part of his mind realized Qurrah stood behind her, face downcast, unwilling to meet his gaze.

Why are they here? Tarlak wondered. Have they turned against the angels after all?

Sadly he knew he would get no answer. So onward he rode, the hour passing as Antonil’s army slowly crossed into the land of Ker.

Bram returned to his tent, furious at the series of events, though his pride dictated he hide it. Antonil had done his best to humiliate him, prove him the weaker. The only way to save face was to pretend the challenge beneath him, and showing frustration would only reveal it for the lie it was. Stepping inside his tent, he let out a sigh, set down his sword.

“I swear, Loreina, things were simpler when we fought armies of demons,” he said. “And men were smarter, too.”

Rising from the cot, her brown hair braided down to her waist, was his wife. She put her hands around his neck, kissed his lips, then smiled. It dimpled her face, making her look as young as she was when he first married her. The intelligence in her eyes, the fiery ambition, was there now as it had always been. With the encroachment of the angels it had only gotten brighter, so much she demanded to come with him instead of remaining behind in Angkar where it was safer.

“I heard Antonil’s words with my own ears,” she said. “He would deny your basic right to control your borders. He would deny your sovereignty. Do you believe me now?”

Bram swore, flung off his pauldrons so they fell in a clattering display. Loreina stepped back, gave him his space to brood.

“They won’t invade,” he said, shaking his head. “Stubborn and foolish as Antonil is, his eyes are only for his former kingdom. He is no threat, not if we stay out of the way of his hopeless crusades.”

“It’s not Antonil I fear,” Loreina said. “It’s his replacement.”

It was true, of course. The whispering winds of politics blew south, and they whispered with greater certainty Antonil’s fate. His grip on Mordan was slipping away with each passing month. Whether through death in battle, betrayal in court, or a full blown uprising of nobles, his time as king approached its end.

“What more can we do?” Bram asked. “His army is the greater, doubly so if you include his angels. Open warfare against Mordan would destroy us all, and that cannot happen. If we fall, then the last hope of there being a free nation in all of Dezrel, at least one not ruled by monsters, falls with us.”

Loreina slipped closer, put her hands around his waist.

“Patience,” she said. “It is not the same as doing nothing. We keep our eyes open. There will come a time when Antonil is weak, when the angels no longer fly above him. It is in that moment we will refuse to bow our knee. It is in that moment we will show the world we will not be mocked or ignored. We are a sovereign nation, not a footstool.”

She was on her knees now, her hands drifting down to his belt.

“And remember,” she said to him. “You must remain calm around your men. Don’t worry. I’ll help you with that.”

Bram swallowed, close his eyes, and then mentally swore a hundred times when he heard someone call his name from outside the tent. He recognized the voice, too. It was Sir Ian Millar, his most trusted knight and commander of his armies. The man’s service had been invaluable during the Gods’ War.

“Yes?” Bram asked through the fabric of the tent.

“Milord, I would seek your advice.”

“Can it wait?”

“I fear it cannot.”

Bram let out a sigh, pushed back his wife.

“Later,” he told her.

“I have duties I must attend,” she said, rising from her knees.

“Then much later.”

His mood now even worse, Bram stormed out of his tent, still tightening his belt.

“What is it?” he asked Ian. The knight saluted, and the worry in his eyes dispelled Bram’s immature mood.

“If you would, please follow me while I explain,” the knight said, spinning on his heels and marching toward the bridge.

“Has there been trouble with Antonil’s men during the crossing?” Bram asked.