The Prison of Angels

impact.

Jessilynn screamed as the wolf-man let out an ear-splitting howl. The attention of the camp turned their way, and suddenly alert, it took only moments before Dieredon was spotted. A legion of howls took up the hunt as the elf sprinted toward the exit. The rest of the twenty wolf-men gathered around the cliff edge to watch the excitement. Jessilynn felt completely ignored, and for some reason that made her all the more afraid. They didn’t care about her, found her vaguely amusing at best. She was but food to them. What interest would they show, other than when it was time to rip apart her flesh?

Staring down, Jessilynn prayed for Dieredon’s safety, even as she saw how hopeless a situation it was. He’d stashed his bow with Sonowin for the duration of the climb, which left him with only two long-bladed daggers. His speed was incredible as he ran, but the wolf-men could still overcome him. The elf was a blur of motion, and anytime a wolf-man neared, the creature fell back, clutching part of its body or falling dead on the spot. Jessilynn stared, wide-eyed, continuing to pray. Maybe he could live. Maybe he wouldn’t suffer for her failure. She should have heard them. She should have realized they were sneaking up on her. All her fault. His death, the death of a legend, would be her fault.

“A feisty one, he is,” said one of the wolf-men.

“All elves are,” gray-hair snarled. “Perhaps the pups are liars if they cannot kill one elf.”

“They’ll kill him,” said another. “Where else will he go? Sad we won’t get a taste.”

“I’ve had elf flesh before. It is sweet, like honey. You would not like it.”

Dieredon scrambled toward one of the cliff edges as three wolf-men cut him off. They leapt in unison, and beneath them Dieredon tumbled. Fire glinted off his daggers, and only two wolf-men got up to chase after. The third lay motionless.

“Now he is trapped,” gray-fur said, pointing a clawed finger. “They’ve cut him off.”

Over a dozen wolf-men had ignored chasing after Dieredon, instead racing past so they might curl around, forming a wall of fur to prevent him from reaching the ravine’s exit. Dieredon raced toward them anyway, as if he might challenge them, but at the last moment he slid to a halt, turned, and vaulted to the side. He struck the opposite cliff face, scrambling upward with amazing dexterity. A few wolf-men picked up speed and leapt, slamming gracelessly into the rock and clawing wildly. They shredded the edges of the elf’s cloak, but did little else. Still, Jessilynn could see hundreds of the beasts racing out of the ravine and curling back around, scaling the slope to wait for Dieredon should he reach the top. Below him were hundreds more, howling and yipping at him, eager to feast the moment he fell.

Jessilynn saw him slip, and from a single hand he hung above the maw of snapping teeth. She let out a cry, and it earned her the attention of her captor.

“You care for him?” the wolf-man asked. “You amuse me, human. Watch him die. Cry for him. I love seeing humans weak.”

Dieredon had regained his balance, climbing halfway up the cliff. Jessilynn felt a lump in her throat, knowing there was nowhere for him to go. He was just delaying the inevitable. He slipped again, and she saw his movements lacking grace when compared to his initial descent. He had to be wounded, she knew, though she could only guess how badly from such a great distance.

Let him die from the fall, she prayed. Spare him the pain of their teeth.

Dieredon let go of the rock, and crying out, she watched him plummet. He turned in the air, legs downward, and then swooping in from the sky came Sonowin. Dieredon landed atop her, rolled to one side, and then grabbed her mane with a hand to steady himself. Tears were in Jessilynn’s eyes as he flew away. At least he lived. At least someone would know her fate.

Gray-hair growled, his teeth so close to her face.

“Stubborn elves,” he said, tossing Jessilynn to the ground. The twenty gathered round, flexing their claws, their tongues drooling.

“We should eat her now,” said one. “There’s not enough for us as is. The rest will try to take her.”

“No,” the gray-haired one snarled. “We are late, and the kings might be angry. Let her be a gift. They cannot be angry if we give them human-flesh to eat.”

“Our presence is a gift!” one of the bigger wolf-men snarled back. He turned his yellow eyes on Jessilynn, licking the sides of his long snout with his tongue. Gray-hair roared, stepping between him and Jessilynn.

“A gift,” the wolf-man said. “Or we shall feast on you instead.”

The younger wolf-man bowed his head and flattened his ears.

“If you say, then so be it.”

The gray-haired one turned and wrapped his enormous paw around her neck. His eyes were all she saw as he lowered himself to her height.

“Walk,” he ordered.

She did so, flanked by the pack. The thundering of her heart and quickness of her breathing gave the entire world a flat, glassy look. Unreal, she thought, it was all unreal. Like a bad dream. Part of her wished it was, but her senses were overloaded, giving things a clarity no nightmare could ever possess. Down the ravine they walked as high above she saw Sonowin circling. When the winged horse began to lower, she dared hope he’d rescue her. It seemed gray-hair saw as well, and he snarled up at the sky.

“Come for your pet?” he asked. Reaching out, he grabbed Jessilynn by the throat. The paw closed so tightly she could not breathe, and frantically she clutched at his claws as he lifted her into the air, as if offering her to Dieredon. His other paw tightened against her chest, thick claws easily punching through her armor. With blurred vision she looked up to the stars, saw Sonowin lift back up into the air. Her last bit of hope died, and she knew, absolutely knew her time had ended.

“Such cowardice,” the wolf-man snarled, and he set her down. Gasping for air, she fell to her knees, only to find herself yanked back to her feet.

“Walk,” the gray-hair said. “The kings will prefer the kill to be their own, but I will present your warm dead body if I must.”

Jessilynn coughed so hard she vomited, the bile dribbling down her throat, yet still she struggled to her feet. One foot after the other, she thought, beginning her descent down the outside of the ravine, following the pack as they curled her around to the entrance. She tried praying to Ashhur, but her mind was white with terror. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t form words. All around her were yellow eyes, and there was no disguising their hunger. Into the camp she went, and now there were thousands of them, howling and growling. The sound was deafening, and without even realizing it she began to cry.

I’m sorry, she pleaded to her god, though she didn’t know why. She felt an overwhelming sense of failure, and though it made no sense, she could not help it. I’m sorry, so sorry. Please, forgive me.

They stopped at the great pile of bones where Dieredon had hoped to overhear the meeting. Now so close, she saw the age of the bones, many chalk-white and meticulously clean. Others were red with blood, bits of meat still clinging to them. Overpowering was the smell of sweat from the beasts, and their breath was tinged with the scent of blood. She tried not to gag, but her stomach was already weak. To her knees the gray-hair flung her, slamming her atop the bone pile. The bones scattered beneath her, clattering.

Think, she told herself. She knew the prayers she was supposed to pray if she thought herself approaching death. All the comforts of the Golden Eternity, the promises of Ashhur and his angels, she tried to think on them, to face death with the stubbornness and comfort that Jerico had when he’d been captured by the enemy. But all she felt was an aching desire to be anywhere other than where she was, to walk backward in time, to when Dieredon was first climbing down the cliff, and make him stay, make him fly her out of there, out of the Wedge and to the safety of the Citadel.

But instead the wolf-men howled, the sound piercing her ears and overwhelming any rational thought. Sobbing on the bones, she curled her head, closed her eyes, and waited for death.

The howling lessened as she heard movement upon the bones.

“A gift, great kings,” the gray-hair said from behind her. “She was with the elf when we arrived, aiding him with a rope.”

This was it. Her whole body tensed. A massive paw reached down, and she waited for it to rip open her throat. Instead it grabbed hold of her armor and lifted her upward. Determined to show some shred of dignity, she