The King of the Vile (20 page)

“The glorious angels of Ashhur,” Deathmask said, a feverish grin on his face. “The final judges of truth and lie. No man can lie, no innocent man be punished...unless you don’t like the answer. Then it’s
foul magic.
”

Ezekai rushed forward when Deathmask spat at Azariah’s feet.

“No lie, yet you condemn me,” he said. “No lie, but you will execute me. Look at yourselves, damn it. Can’t you see how blind you’ve become?”

Ezekai grabbed Deathmask by the front of his shirt, yanked him to his feet, and then shoved a gag in his mouth to silence him.

Aurelia pulled on Harruq’s shoulder so he’d lean close enough for her to whisper.

“You have to do something,” she said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but Deathmask is clearly innocent. They can’t convict him with so little proof.”

He looked about to the thousands of towering angels, each bearing swords, spears, and maces on their belts and backs.

“Yes,” Harruq said. “I think they can.”

“All of you have heard his words,” Azariah said. “You have seen the witnesses. Do you find the man known as Deathmask innocent or guilty of Avlimar’s fall?”

Hundreds rose to their feet, all shouting ‘guilty’. Only one angel in four kept seated, and it sickened Harruq’s stomach. This was their justice? This was their trial? It was a sham, a bad joke, and Harruq leapt from his bench, unable to control himself anymore.

“I will not allow this,” he shouted as he approached Azariah. “You have no proof, no evidence, and your own ears cannot hear a lie, yet you’d kill him anyway?”

“This is not your place,” Azariah said, spinning to face him.

“I am steward of this realm, and that man is one of my subjects,” Harruq said. “How is this not my place?”

Angels began to protest, some questioning the same. A divide between them was growing, Harruq had no doubt. Ahaesarus stepped before Harruq, and he gently held him back.

“Stay calm, my friend,” he said.

“Calm?” Harruq asked. “I am calm. You want to see me pissed? Drag Deathmask off to die instead of handing him over for trial. A
real
trial.”

Azariah shook his head.

“His crimes were committed against us,” he said. “Not your people, but Ashhur’s servants. We will judge him, and as you can clearly see, he has been found guilty.” The angel spun to Ezekai, and he nodded. “Do what must be done.”

Ezekai grabbed Deathmask by one arm, and a second angel came to join him. A swift blow from Ezekai’s free hand knocked the dangerous man unconscious. Harruq moved to stop them, but Ahaesarus intercepted, pushing him back with an enormous hand.

“This matter is done,” Ahaesarus said quietly. “But another matter lingers. Save your strength. Deathmask is only one man, but this coming divide will affect thousands...”

Harruq peered over Ahaesarus’s shoulder as Ezekai and the other angel lifted into the air, flying off with Deathmask’s limp, unconscious form. Beyond reach of human hands. Beyond justice.

The peoples’ chant echoed in Harruq’s ears, and it felt all the more troubling.

“We have a second matter now to address,” Azariah said, stepping away from Harruq and Ahaesarus. “The matter of mankind’s desire to hold a human trial for one of our own, Judarius.”

Harruq drifted toward his seat but refused to sit. Having so many eyes on him made him nervous, and he felt sweat trickling down his neck, but after witnessing Deathmask’s supposed ‘trial’ he knew he could not let things proceed without him. Just like there was no one to speak for Deathmask, there were none to speak for the dead Thomas. The angels saw themselves as perfection. Perfection meant no doubts, no questioning. Harruq needed to remind them the world was not as black and white as they saw it.

“Judarius, would you please stand?” Azariah asked.

Judarius rose from his seat along the front and crossed his arms over his muscular chest. Azariah gestured toward Ahaesarus, who took over the questioning.

“The man named Thomas,” he said. “Did you murder him?”

Judarius shook his head. “All I have done was justified. I committed no murder. I am guilty of no sin.”

Harruq didn’t need to ask this time if he spoke the truth or not. The looks on the angels’ faces was one of overwhelming relief.

“I consider this proof enough,” Azariah said. “To hand Judarius over to trial only risks that an innocent life is judged guilty by imperfect hands. We cannot allow it. Let this matter be settled and forgotten.”

“Except there is more at stake here than that,” Ahaesarus said, stepping into the very center of the auditorium and turning to address the assembly. “If Judarius is innocent, then we need fear no trial. We must let the people we protect feel they are our children, not our slaves. If they believe angels may commit crimes without punishment, they will rebel against our aid.”

“To acknowledge their request is to acknowledge we are capable of crimes,” Azariah argued. “That alone would invalidate all our efforts.”

Enough of this
, Harruq thought. He stepped forward, joining Ahaesarus’s side.

“Witnesses saw him cut down Thomas,” he said. “Witnesses no different than the angels who just condemned Deathmask to death. Yet here you give them no voice. You feel no need to question them, or bring them before the assembly to describe what they have seen. Judarius was innocent before he ever spoke a word, no different than Deathmask was guilty before he even opened his mouth to answer.”

Harruq’s words were like wildfire to the assembly. The murmurs intensified. Azariah shook his head as if Harruq were a child.

“We have given so much to mankind,” he said. “We bled and died for you twice over, first as Wardens, then as angels. We spend our waking days serving you, healing you, protecting. We ask for so very little, only a home we might call our own, and even that is called into question as mankind picks away at it piece by piece in the name of greed. Our lives are not our own, but Ashhur’s. We are the slaves, not the people we protect. And yet you stand here. You point your finger at us, calling our justice into question. You do not understand our sacrifices, sacrifices we could never make if we were not perfect beings. For you to then repay this wonderful service with doubt and accusation is insulting.”

The neck of Harruq’s shirt continued to itch from sweat, and unable to take it anymore, he grabbed at it and yanked on the fabric. The shirt ripped, and he tore it free, stripping himself naked from the waist up. A quiet rumble traveled through the angels as Harruq turned, letting them see his many scars. His wrists and neck were burned, some from Qurrah’s whip. His arms and chest bore dozens of long white slashes from swords and spears, and several purple splotches were the faded remnants of dark magic rupturing his flesh. Greatest were the matching scars across the center of his chest and back, left from when Thulos had run him through with his blade.

“Do you see the scars?” Harruq asked the assembly. “Do you see the torture I’ve endured? I have bled. I have screamed. I gave everything, I gave my
life
to the people of this land. You speak of your sacrifices as if they are unique. You act as if mankind is forever in your debt.
I
slew the war god.
My brother
burned away the prophet. Not you. We did what you could not. Have we anointed ourselves as gods above mankind? No. All we did, we did for those we loved.”

He pointed an accusing finger at the crowd.

“You are servants of mankind, not masters. You are protectors, not executioners. Let Avlimar’s fall be a lasting reminder that you are
not
above the people you serve. You do not lord over us from the skies, but walk among us in the dirt. If you would claim yourselves above our justice, if you would declare mankind inferior and undeserving of treatment equal to your own, then you bear no love for us. You don’t
deserve
the place you once held. You cannot be our guardians. You cannot be our protectors. Be gone from us, each and every last one of you.”

Harruq had expected an uproar. He’d expected to have his words drowned out with dissention. Instead he was met with chilling silence. All eyes were on him, far too many flooded with cold rage. Azariah slowly rose from his seat and stepped into the center of the auditorium.

“Do you give voice to those who throw stones at our homes?” he asked. “Do you speak the hidden thoughts of every thief and murderer within Mordeina’s walls? Each day, we perform Ashhur’s will. Each day, you loathe us for it. You are the sick telling the physician all is well. You are thief claiming no doors need locks. You are the murderer saying all men should lay down their blades.”

Azariah stepped closer, his wings spreading, his entire presence seeming to grow so that each cold, calculated word thundered throughout the assembly.

“Ashhur would bring paradise,” his voice boomed, “yet you would tear it down out of greed, selfishness, and cowardice. The way we demand is hard, but mankind does not want perfection. It fears it. It fears the sacrifice. It fears the day each man or woman will look into a mirror and see through their lies and justifications to the wretched being beneath it all. Mankind fears us because we cannot be fooled with their lies. We cannot be bought with their gold, for we do not share in their greed. We cannot be crippled with compromise, for we do not share in their doubt. I once walked through the golden lands of eternity, and I will do so again. Mankind was given to
us
, half-orc. We are to protect it, nurture it, and above all, force it to grow. The past cannot be accepted. The wretchedness of sin must be turned away at all costs. You think we act harshly, but in truth, we coddle your people. Let that end today. Let us stand tall against their pitiful attempts to drag us into the dirt. We are to judge mankind,
not be judged by them!
”

Harruq felt the peace he’d bled for crumbling away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Ahaesarus rushed the center, but before he could speak a word, Azariah turned his way.

“No!” Azariah cried. “We will hear no more of this. I call this matter to a vote. Those who believe we should hand over Judarius for trial, rise to your feet so your vote may be counted.”

Ahaesarus raised his fist into the air to show himself in favor. Harruq spun, scanning the thousands, begging for what he knew would never be. Angels stood, slowly, scattered. A third at best. The sight sank Harruq’s heart into his stomach. The angels returned to their seats, and Azariah addressed the conclave again.

“Those who believe we are the only judges to whom we must answer, and refuse to hand Judarius over for trial, rise to your feet so your vote may be counted.”

Azariah’s fist shot into the air. All throughout the auditorium, angels stood up, hundreds upon hundreds of them. The rustle of clothes and feathers were war drums to Harruq’s ears. Two thirds of the angels stood with fists raised, an easy majority. Azariah bowed to the assembly, then turned to where Judarius sat on a front row.

“I have heard Judarius’s words, and I sense no lie in them. I declare Judarius guilty of no crime. Let this matter be forgotten.”

Applause followed. Harruq rushed to Azariah’s side, unable to contain himself.

“The people will not accept this,” he said. “The riots, the looting...”

“Will be addressed,” Azariah said. “Humanity may have abandoned us, half-orc, but we have not abandoned them. Hold faith in us. It shall be rewarded in time. Ashhur’s voice is silent, so we must cry all the louder in his place.”

The angel patted him on the shoulder, then moved to join Judarius, who had a crowd growing about him. Congratulating him, Harruq realized. The sight of it was sickening. Aurelia waited at the exit of the auditorium, and he made his way to her.

“Get us out of here,” he said once he reached Aurelia’s side.

“They don’t understand,” she said softly. “They’ve only made it worse.”

Harruq glared over his shoulder to the assembly of angels. “They understand all right. I just don’t think they care anymore.”

A swirling blue portal ripped open before Aurelia. She kissed his hand and pulled him through, away from the city of angels to the city of man.

18

R
oand’s room was the highest in the Masters’ Tower, and climbing up the many steps left Tarlak winded. He doubled over before the door, gasping for air. Had his injuries taken so much out of him that a few stairs could defeat him?

Yes. Yes, they had.

“One day,” he muttered as he knocked on thick oak door. “One day soon, you’ll...”

“I’ll what?”

Tarlak froze. The voice hadn’t come from the door, but from behind. Slowly turning around, he found Roand standing two steps below him with his arms crossed. Tarlak swallowed as his mind reached for a lie.

“You’ll be impressed with how much my studies have progressed,” he said smiling lamely.

The master of the tower chuckled.

“I have had many people plot my doom in hopes of achieving power, fame, or revenge. I welcome you to try, Tarlak Eschaton. Killing you would sadden me, but your attempt on my life would certainly be an amusing one. I daresay it would be worth it.”

“It’s good to know all sins can be forgiven so long as I’m entertaining,” Tarlak said as he stepped aside to let Roand pass. The wizard rapped the door once with his knuckles, and it opened. Tarlak followed him inside.

He’d expected something spacious and pretentious, perhaps carrying a vague fire theme, and he wasn’t disappointed. The room was sparsely furnished, only a bed, a balcony closed off by glass doors, and a few chairs sitting in front of a fireplace. Seven wisps of fire burned in a circle just below the ceiling, like the flames of a candle only they hovered above nothing and released no smoke. The carpet was a radiating pattern of red, orange, and yellow, and the colors shimmered with each step Tarlak took. The furniture was painted black, and where it touched the carpet, tiny hints of flame flickered in and out. Tarlak shook his head, beginning to believe Roand’s fascination with fire far surpassed scholarly focus and into the realm of deep-rooted fetishes. Oddly enough, the only thing not filled with fire was the actual fireplace, but a quick snap of Roand’s fingers fixed that.

“So what is it you come to my room for?” Roand asked as he moved to one of the many shelves lining the walls between vast paintings of sunrises and sunsets. A bewildering array of liquor bottles filled the shelf, enough to leave Tarlak jealous. They had alcohol in the tower? Why had no one informed him of this?

“For starters, I came for a drink,” he said.

Roand smiled at him over his shoulder. “A request I can easily fulfill.”

Moments later, Tarlak reclined in one of the coal-black chairs before the fireplace. The cushions sank around him, surprisingly comfortable. He held a slender cup of onyx half-full of red wine in his left hand.

“What if I turned myself into an elemental being of fire?”

Roand stood beside the balcony door, swirling a cup of wine in his hand as he watched the sun set.

“I had someone try that,” he said. “It was fascinating. Fire elementals are not native to our plane. Their bodies are held together with a liquid substance very much akin to flame, and it is constantly burning, but they are not just flame, as one might presume. And that liquid is very capable of disintegrating if the magic is strong enough. A wonderful day that was, witnessing a being of living fire burn to death.”

“So that’s a no?”

The master wizard laughed.

“That is, indeed, a no.”

Tarlak grunted. He’d actually thought that one might give the fire wizard pause, but clearly not.

“Interesting, but how about this one?” he said, taking another sip of wine. “I guarantee you no one thought of this, not even yourself. What if I killed myself, then had a necromancer resurrect my body after removing the pendant?”

“The pendant activates upon your death. He will have nothing to work with.”

“All right. Then how about he raises me as a ghost so I can haunt your ass from here to eternity?”

Roand grabbed the bottle from a little circular table beside him and refilled his cup.

“You are welcome to try,” he said. “A few of my fellow wizards, Drasst in particular, specialize in necromancy, and they would love the chance to test a few of their more unique spells on a troublesome ghost haunting the towers.”

“So even in death you won’t let me win?” Tarlak lifted his glass. “A toast to the man who ruins the fun in all things, even dying.”

Roand started the laugh, but abruptly stopped. His gaze locked on something outside the glass doors, and after a moment, a grin spread ear to ear across his face.

“You are wrong,” he said. “I am not averse to fun, something our new friend is about to discover in a most unpleasant way.”

Tarlak scratched at his scarred face, wishing he’d perfected his polymorph attempts so he could have an actual beard to stroke. New friend? Who might that be? Another renegade wizard? Traders, come to the towers hoping to make a fortune? Or perhaps Harruq had sent a scout to investigate the disappearance of their army?

No matter how many guesses he might have given himself, Tarlak never would have gotten it right. Two angels landed on the balcony, an unconscious prisoner carried between them. Roand set aside his glass and flung open the doors, allowing in a sudden burst of cold air.

“Greetings, master of the tower,” said one of the angels. “We come bearing a gift from Azariah.”

They tossed their prisoner into the room, where he rolled across the carpet before coming to a stop on his back. Tarlak choked down his surprise. Lying there unconscious, scarred face exposed, was Deathmask. Roand stared at the man, eyes wide, and the grin on his face was horrifying.

“Excellent,” he said. “Most excellent. Tell your high priest that this is an acceptable gift, one I am most grateful for.”

The two angels bowed in unison, then spread their wings and flew away. Roand shut the doors to his balcony, still eyeing Deathmask’s body.

“Angels?” Tarlak asked, not sure how to correctly broach the subject and not particularly caring. “You’re working with angels? Why in Karak’s hairy codpiece would the lord of the council be working with the angels?”

“These are desperate times,” Roand said as he knelt beside Deathmask. “Sometimes desperate measures must be taken in the name of preserving mankind’s freedom.”

The wizard slowly rubbed his finger across Deathmask’s lips, covering the unconscious man’s entire mouth with a waxy substance. Within moments, the substance hardened. Tarlak guessed it’d take a knife and a lot of time to pry open Deathmask’s lips. An effective method to prevent spellcasting, something he swore to remember himself should the need ever arise.

“You’ve had associations with this man in the past, have you not?” Roand asked.

“You could say that.”

The wizard nodded.

“Excellent. Stay where you are, Tarlak. I want you here when he wakes.”

A quick spell, and invisible hands grabbed Deathmask’s body, hoisting him off the ground. Instead of moving to the door, as Tarlak expected, Roand walked to the wall opposite the fireplace. With another wave of his hand, the wall rotated as if on hinges. The bookcase vanished, and replacing it was a black wall littered with chains, manacles, and hooks. Tarlak winced. The stone, it wasn’t black, not naturally. It was literally charred that color.

Suddenly, Roand’s fascination with fire made a lot more horrible, terrible sense.

The hovering Deathmask pressed against the wall, arms sliding between two manacles, which promptly shut of their own accord. Roand looped chains about his waist and bound Deathmask’s ankles as well. Next he positioned a large hook beneath Deathmask’s jaw. It dug into the skin, drawing thin drops of blood as it held the unconscious man’s head. Last was the delicate process of imprisoning Deathmask’s fingers. Beside the manacles were two gnarled tangles, like a briar bush of metal. Roand pulled chains from the tangle, looping them about multiple fingers. Into bleeding fingertips he inserted sharp hooks, like those used by fishermen.

When Deathmask was firmly attached to the wall, Roand lovingly ran a hand down the side of the scarred man’s face.

“Time to wake,” he whispered.

Blue sparks arced from his touch, digging into skin. Deathmask flung himself forward, stretching the chains to their limits as his eyes shot wide open. His scream was muffled by the waxen gag, his nostrils flared as he breathed in and out. The hook in his jaw swung with him, firmly lodged in place.

Roand stood before Deathmask, their faces so close they nearly touched. There was no fear in his stance, no worry in his smile. Just pleasure.

“Welcome back, banished one,” he said.

Deathmask attempted to respond, his words an unintelligible grunt due to the wax sealing his mouth shut. Roand
tsk’ed
at him.

“Not yet,” he said. “It’s time for you to listen. You are in my tower, my room to be precise. The position of the hooks in your body has been carefully chosen. They will bleed you, and prevent any casting of spells, but you will not die, not from them, so do not bother to try. I will sear shut any wounds you cause to yourself, and trust me when I say the reopening of them from another attempt will hurt far worse than the initial tearing. I have seen it enough times to know.”

Deathmask settled down, glaring at Roand with mismatched eyes that steadily grew in awareness. Roand crossed his arms and took a step back.

“There. You seem more yourself. I’m unsealing your mouth, so I expect you to behave.”

He brushed Deathmask’s lips again, and the wax bubbled as it dripped down his chin. Deathmask hacked and spat bloody saliva onto the floor.

“Fuck you,” he said.

Roand shook his head.

“Such crudeness. You weren’t this way when you lived here.”

Deathmask grinned like a caged animal.

“It’s amazing what life outside these tower walls can be like,” he said. “You should try it sometime. You’d learn just how little of the world revolves around your two little spires of stone.”

“That the outside world is chaotic compared to the order of our towers is not something to gloat about,” Roand said. “Nor is it something I’d wish to embrace.”

The wizard spun and addressed Tarlak. “What name do you know him by?”

“Deathmask,” Tarlak answered. “I’ve always known him as Deathmask.”

“Deathmask?” Roand said, turning about with a frown. “A bit too theatrical, don’t you think?”

“You stole my name,” Deathmask said. “So I took a new one.”

“I stole your name hoping to teach you humility. Instead, it seems to have inspired even greater hubris. You were never one to learn from your betters, were you,
Deathmask?
”

Deathmask laughed at the attempted insult.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “Whoever I was, no one beyond a few old, worthless men inside this tower grieved his passing. No one outside these walls ever knew I existed. This name you mock, the name you forced me to take, is known from every corner of Dezrel. Even the rumors of your power you so carefully leak are nothing compared to my own underworld legend. Banishing me was the best moment in my life, so thank you, Roand. Thank you oh so very much.”

This was clearly not the way Roand had expected the conversation to go, and he looked deeply displeased.

“A vain, prideful man,” the wizard said. “It is good to finally have you back so you may suffer for all the crimes you’ve committed against us.”

“My crimes?” Deathmask asked. “What crimes have I committed against you, other than practicing magic despite my exile? I see a yellow wizard over there who did the same. I suffer, yet you let Tarlak live in your halls? Forgiveness for him, but not for me? Why is that, Roand? Is it because you’re a gods-damned hypocrite?”

“Tarlak is currently atoning for his transgressions, all performed when he was not yet part of our council. You, though...you spat in my face by disobeying a direct order to stay out of Veldaren’s affairs. You always thought you were the smartest and most clever of us. You weren’t. And then out of some childish need, or a vain sense of pride, you had to go and insult us by enacting those same plans we shot down.”

“That’s shit,” Deathmask said. “All of it, complete shit. You’d have strung me from this wall years ago if not for how many would have protested. You were a coward then, and you’re a coward now.”