Half-Orcs: Book 06 - The Prison of Angels (5 page)

Before a cry escaped his lips he saw a light burning from within his chest, where his heart should be. The bluish-white glow was strong, and as he knelt it continued to grow so that it nearly enveloped him. A thought struck him. He reached for his sword, and as he drew it the glow from his chest swirled down his arm and into the blade, manifesting itself again. Looking around, he saw his students, all kneeling, and from their chests emerged similar glows. Just as Azariah said, many were strong, bright, filled with life and devotion. Jerico in particular was nearly blinding to look upon. But also he saw dimness in many, emptiness. It hurt him seeing it, and he could not help but feel responsible.

The darkness broke, and the light vanished. It happened so suddenly Lathaar let out a gasp. How long had it been? He didn’t know. What had felt like minutes may have only been seconds, so strangely that vision had distorted time. Colors rushed back into his eyes, the green of the surrounding hills, the gentle blue of the Rigon River rolling beside the Citadel. The students rose to their feet one by one, some muttering to themselves, others praying. Jerico shot him a look, but what it meant he couldn’t decipher. And then he saw Azariah.

The angel knelt on his hands and knees, gasping for air. His wings shivered, and feathers fell like leaves in an autumn wind. Lathaar reached down for him, but his offered hand went ignored. With a loud groan Azariah pushed himself to stand. His bearing was unsteady, but with each passing moment the color returned to his face and the firmness returned to his voice.

“I hope you gained what you needed,” Azariah said, turning to go.

“Wait,” Lathaar said, hurrying after him. “Is something wrong? You look—”

“I am fine,” Azariah said, interrupting him. “I…no, Lathaar, you do not deserve such harshness. Ashhur’s power is fading from me, fading from all of us. When did you last talk to one of your priests?”

Lathaar frowned.

“High Priest Keziel stayed here a few months before returning to the Sanctuary, but that was not long after we first rebuilt the Citadel. A few have traveled here from time to time, but not recently, no.”

“They suffer, same as I. The world of Dezrel is fading, paladin, and the celestial magic I once possessed fades with it. Forgive me, but I came here to see if your kind felt it as well, but it appears the glow of your blades remains strong.”

“Praise Ashhur for that,” Lathaar said.

The angel fell silent, deep in thought. Lathaar stood there, giving him time. Shifting his weight side to side, he glanced up at the sky, then chuckled.

“It seems you’re not our only winged visitor today,” he said.

They both looked upward, to where an elf in dark green camouflage rode atop the back of a beautiful winged horse, her white wings the only thing that could match the splendor of the angels. The elf circled twice, then dove low, landing just before the two. With inhuman grace he leapt from the horse’s back, and in unison the creature and master bowed. The elf’s hair was long and brown, carefully tied so it would not interfere with his vision or movements. From his back hung a wicked looking bow, attached to leather straps that wrapped about his chest and shoulders.

“Greetings,” said Dieredon, Scoutmaster of the Quellan elves. “I come as requested, though forgive me for the delay. The Vile Wedge has gotten far wilder in the past few years.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Lathaar said, bowing in return. He glanced at Azariah, noticed a hardness in the angel’s eyes that worried him.

“I must be leaving,” said Azariah. “I still have much to do. Trust your students, Lathaar, and have faith in them. Should Ashhur be kind, they will repay that faith tenfold.”

With a curt nod to Dieredon, Azariah spread his wings and then leapt into the air. Lathaar watched him go, careful to reveal nothing to his elven guest.

“Have I done something to offend?” Dieredon asked.

Lathaar shook his head.

“No, it just seems that even angels can have a long day. But let’s not think on that. I’m glad you’re here, Dieredon. I’m in need, and you’re the best person imaginable to help me.”

“Ask, and I will do what I can, my friend.”

Lathaar led him back around the Citadel, to where the students had resumed training. They passed through the various age groups, gathered together in small circles. Most wielded swords and shields, trading blows as they searched for openings in their sparring partner’s defenses. Further back they passed a few who wielded swords in each hand, and many others wielding maces like their trainer, Jerico. But at the very far end sat a young lady, her chestnut hair cut at the shoulders and then pulled into a ponytail. Unlike the others, she wore soft leather gloves, and in her lap was a bow.

“Jessilynn,” Lathaar said, drawing her attention upward. She smiled until she saw the elf, and then the smile fled her face. Immediately she leapt to her feet, fumbling through a bow. At sixteen she was one of the oldest students at the Citadel, but to Dieredon she was but a child, nothing compared to his centuries of life.

“You must be Dieredon,” Jessilynn said, her eyes staring at the dirt. “Jerico and Lathaar have told me so much about you. Consider me honored to be in your presence.”

“Well-spoken,” Dieredon said, crossing his arms. “Though I fear your teachers’ stories. Paladins may not lie, but I still believe they are prone to exaggeration.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Lathaar said, grinning. “Jessilynn, fire a few arrows at a target. Don’t be nervous, either.”

Jessilynn nodded, and without looking at either of them she grabbed her bow and turned around. Thirty yards away was a bale of hay, and leaning in front of it were several planks of wood that served as targets. For a moment Jessilynn dipped her head, closed her eyes, and began to pray.

“She was part of our inaugural class,” Lathaar whispered to Dieredon. “It was a big stink, too, our very first female paladin. Plenty of the priests were furious, but Azariah declared it good, and that ended the grumblings. Our younger classes have more now, and it isn’t the trouble or difficult matter we thought it’d be. As for Jessilynn, to be honest her skills with a sword aren’t very impressive, and neither can she wield a shield with any sort of grace. But the bow…”

Lying at her feet were a pile of arrows, and with her prayer finished Jessilynn leaned down to grab one. Pressing it against the string, she pulled it taut, then hesitated. As she did, a soft blue began to glow from the arrowhead. Then she let it fly. It arced through the air, leaving behind it a blue-white trail. The arrow missed the wooden targets, instead vanishing into the hay with a brief flicker of light.

Dieredon looked at Lathaar, an eyebrow raised. In response, Lathaar just shook his head.

“It gets crazier,” he said. “Jessilynn, another.”

She grabbed a second arrow, and this time she looked far less tight as she nocked it for flight. After another moment of hesitation she let it fly. Its aim was true, striking a thin board in the center of the hay bale. Upon contact the wood shattered as if blasted by an enormous hammer. Onward the arrow continued, vanishing into the hay. Seeing the explosion, Jessilynn hopped once in the air, her ponytail bouncing.

Now both of Dieredon’s eyebrows were raised, and his mouth dropped open a little.

Jessilynn spun around to bow, and she was unable to hold back her pleased smile. But at least she tried.

“I hope my demonstration was sufficient,” she said.

“Jerico’s shield gives us some precedence in dealing with this,” Lathaar said. “The problem is, neither of us knows what we’re doing with longbows. I’ve only shown her the most rudimentary basics, and even those might have been wrong. Basically, she’s self-taught.”

“Of that, there is little doubt,” said Dieredon. “Her stance is too narrow. She sights down the arrow while gripping it too tightly. Her follow-through is incorrect, and I cannot believe I must say this, but she even nocks the arrow incorrectly.”

Each critique made Jessilynn wince as if she were being stabbed with a dagger, but she remained quiet, her attention undivided.

“That’s great and all, but can you train her?” Lathaar asked, stepping away from Jessilynn and dropping his voice. “We can’t help her, and you’ve seen what she’s already capable of untrained. We can’t let such a unique talent go wasted. She could take down a bull with a single shot. What she needs more than anything is a teacher. That’s why I sent for you, Dieredon. Who else is better with a bow than you?”

“Flattery won’t help you here,” Dieredon insisted. “I can’t train her. The amount of time it would take to make her even proficient would be too much of a sacrifice. The Vile Wedge stirs, Lathaar, and orc armies surround our forests at all times.”

“Take her with you, then.”

Dieredon rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.

“What of her lessons here?” he asked.

Lathaar thought of what Azariah had said, as well as his own beliefs on the matter. His students had been coddled. They were out of the darkness of the world, living in safety and comfort.

“She knows the prayers, the lessons, the verses,” he said. “Everything else she’ll learn on her own, or from you. Please, Dieredon, she’s quiet, focused, and will take to your lessons well, I promise. I’ve talked with Jerico, and we’ve both prayed about this for months. This is the right thing to do, I’m sure of it.”

The elf let out a sigh.

“Six months,” he said. “That’s all I guarantee. And she’ll learn everything I teach her, not just about the bow. She’ll wear the armor I tell her to, move silently as needed, learn to forage, to craft her own arrows, anything and everything to survive out there with me. She won’t be a paladin when she returns, not in discipline or tactics. She’ll be a ranger. Can you accept that?”

Lathaar turned to Jessilynn, knowing without a doubt she’d been listening in.

“Can you?” he asked her.

Jessilynn’s green eyes sparkled, and she clutched her bow tight.

“Will I learn to shoot like you?” she asked.

“In six months?” Dieredon laughed. “Good gods, you humans. By the end of six months, my hope is you’ll know how to hold your bow without hurting yourself. Now do you accept? Know that we will soar to many places on my horse, Sonowin, so if you fear heights you should remain here and accept a more appropriate teacher. A human teacher.”

Lathaar watched as Jessilynn’s grin spread ear to ear.

“I get to ride Sonowin?” she asked. “I accept, of course I accept!”

And then she was off, calling out to her friends while rushing around the Citadel, to where Sonowin waited patiently. Lathaar watched her go, and when he caught Dieredon glaring at him, he smiled.

“I did say she was focused,” he said, and laughed at Dieredon’s exasperation.

4

T
he crowd was twice the size it had been a week before, and ten times larger than the week before that. Kevin Maryll did well to hide his satisfaction. By leaving, Antonil had done more to undermine his own rule than anyone else over his five year reign. Any other human, at least.

“But what do we say to these angels?” he cried, his hands shaking to convey the sheer depth of rage boiling within him. “What do we say when they declare us liars, thieves, adulterers? Do they give us proof?”

No!
the crowd shouted.

“Do they give us witnesses?”

No!
they cried again.

“That’s right! Nothing, they give us nothing but their word. They give us nothing, then take from us everything, our land, our possessions, our very lives. And what do we say? What
can
we say, when their word is the only law that matters?”

A chorus of denials washed over him, varied in wording but similar in tone. Kevin drank it all in, at last letting himself relax. These were the fruits of his labor, hard-fought and long won. For years he had spoken out against the rule of angels. When the Gods’ War first ended his cries had fallen on deaf ears. No one would listen, for surely he was mad to say they should not trust the saviors of Dezrel. But patience and time had proven him right. Now over a hundred men and women surrounded him in the streets of Mordeina, blocking off a large portion of trade just so they might hear his truth.

“The gods started this war. The gods and their followers tore this land asunder, filling its rivers with blood and its fields with corpses. Yet now the puppets of the victor, these enforcers, these so-called angels, would lord over us. Who will protect us from them? Who will stand tall when they execute an accused thief yet let a confessed murderer go free? Who will represent us, who will be our voice to the heavens to shout in a loud and clear voice that
we
will rule mankind, not them?”

“The king will!” a man shouted from somewhere in the back, perfectly on cue. Easily worth the three copper he’d paid him.

“The king?” Kevin asked. “The king will protect us? The king will speak for us? Aye, a good king that is, my friend, so bring him to me. Show me. Tell me his name. Where is our king? All of you, I ask, I beg, tell me where is our king?”