The King of the Vile (33 page)

People had begun emerging from their homes, rushing to find loved ones or attempt to put out fires. Lathaar watched them, a rock forming in his gut. He heard a steadily growing number of calls and shouts from the village gate, the commotion too far away for him to decipher.

“What now?” he asked. He turned to the young paladins. “You three, stay here where it’s safe.”

“Wait,” Qurrah shouted, but Lathaar ignored him. He forced his tired legs to move. It didn’t matter how exhausted he felt. He’d still fight on. Jerico kept pace despite his multiple wounds and dented armor. Only his shield remained in immaculate condition.

“Well,” Jerico said. “That was a fun surprise.”

Lathaar shook his head and forced himself to prepare for whatever new challenge awaiting them at the village gate. He saw no more angels marring the sky with their black wings, so what now? Traitorous soldiers? War demons? Perhaps hundreds of undead? He’d sworn to give his life to the people of Waitsfield to protect them, and his drained body was dangerously close to letting that happen. If only the sun would rise. He felt if he could just see the sun, and know that this awful night was over, then the nightmare would finally end. Yet despite how many angels they killed, and how many prayers he whispered, dawn felt so far away.

The closer they got, the more Lathaar heard. Shouting. Crying. People frightened, or in pain. Had a new battle joined theirs? Amid it all, he heard the rattle of armor, and sparing a glance at Jerico, he saw him readying his mace and shield for another fight. Picking up the pace, the two rushed past the final row of homes, only to skid to a stop at the open gate.

Lathaar saw soldiers, but none loyal to the fallen angels. Hundreds approached the village, and they were not undead, nor were they war demons, but instead tired, haggard people carrying little more than the clothes on their backs. At their head walked Harruq and Aurelia Tun, Gregory carried in his arms, Aubrienna in hers.

“I told you they were here,” Harruq said to Aurelia, grinning despite the deep circles underneath his eyes and the dried blood across his face and armor. “Who else would be dumb enough to wield weapons so bright they’d attract attention from miles around?”

“Only this fool,” Lathaar said. He smiled and embraced his friends.

27

I
n the young morning, Azariah led his followers southward through the skies. To his left flew his brother, Judarius, his enormous mace safely strapped to his back. He’d spoken only a single sentence in Azariah’s presence since the Fall, and that was to inform him of the half-orc’s escape with his elven wife and the child king. To Azariah’s right flew Ezekai, newly promoted in rank behind only Azariah and Judarius. A worthy reward for an angel that had remained loyal throughout all his doubts and struggles. Of all the Fallen, Azariah knew that Ezekai understood him best.

The rolling hills leading to Mordeina steadily passed beneath them. The light reflecting off the dew should have made the grass sparkle in the early sun, but Azariah saw only a dull gray with the faintest hints of green. Ashhur’s betrayal not only robbed them of their beauty and grace but also the ability to enjoy beauty itself. What food Azariah had eaten tasted of ash. The world around him was a mess of interlocking grays and blacks, with what little color remained faint and diluted, as if he viewed it through a wall of smoke. The wind blowing against his skin used to fill him with peace, but now it itched like poorly weaved wool. His head ached from the unnatural bones growing from his skull to form his crown. To speak was a frustration. His broken teeth cut his tongue and lips. Azariah couldn’t even close his mouth properly, for the teeth were broken in such odd angles that they would not rest upon each other but instead jab into his gums. At all times he tasted blood, and it was a cruel joke of Ashhur’s that it was the only substance whose taste wasn’t dulled.

“There,” said Ezekai, the white-haired angel swinging closer and shouting to be heard. His outstretched arm pointed to the west. Azariah turned his head, scanning the distance. A gentle wood grew for a few miles along a minor creek. The leaves had already fallen for the coming winter. Through their gaps he saw intermittent tents.

“No campfires,” Azariah said. “Do they hide from us?”

It was possible. Given the carnage of the night before, a few of his angels might have plunged recklessly into the army. Rational thought had meant nothing in those early hours of rage, nor the fear of death.
It doesn’t matter.
Even if the humans had warning, it would not help them. Nor would the cover of trees. The people would either bow or suffer complete destruction. Azariah was tired of politics. He was tired of votes, and debates, and questions of morality. These miserable excuses of life could barely keep from killing each other, yet they still deluded themselves into thinking they grasped the concepts of eternity better than the angels themselves. It was like listening to a babe still at the breast telling their mother they were the wiser.

Azariah dove, those with him following. With all their wings spread wide, they were like a cloud, and their shadow crossed over the forest. Before Azariah’s foot ever touched ground, the soldiers were scrambling for their weapons. It seemed the humans had encountered one of the fallen during the night. Azariah wondered which of his timeless brethren had died. The angels had scattered in all directions after the Fall, some flying for dozens of miles just to find a place untouched by bloodshed they might release their rage upon. They had trickled back into Devlimar throughout the morning, making it impossible to know who might have perished.

“Bring me your lord!” Azariah shouted, unafraid of their spears and swords. He kept his wings spread wide so all might see his black feathers. That was one benefit of Ashhur casting them aside: his current form inspired terror far more than his previous ever could. Given how they’d tried, and failed, to rule through grace and mercy, perhaps a frightening visage was more appropriate for the new world.

The men shouted as they formed lines, men with shields on the front, spears and archers in the back. Azariah shook his head, patience wearing thin, not that he’d had much to begin with.

“Your lord!” he roared. “Bring him to me!”

The very sound of his voice made the soldiers shake. Good. Perhaps they could conclude this meeting without bloodshed. He and his fellow Fallen had drunk their fill the previous night as they shattered the rotten foundation of the old, but now was a time for rebuilding. A new kingdom. A new Paradise.

Murmurs reached his ears, faint and distant. Always faint and distant. Even if Azariah had stood beside them the sound of their voices would have come from a distance. What point was there in such cruelty, Azariah wondered as the soldiers fetched their lord. Why did Ashhur not strike them deaf and dumb instead? Why rob them of their beauty? Why sap them of their ability to enjoy the pleasures of the world? He felt his god seeking to teach him a lesson, but it was far too late. Ashhur had turned his back to them. Ashhur’s light had been replaced with emptiness and disgust. There would be no learning from such a teacher.

And besides, Azariah had far grander plans.

At last a chubby man stumbled to the front. Azariah recognized him as Lord Richard Aerling, master of the lands between Stonewood Forest and the Bloodbrick. His black hair was in disarray, his long mustache frayed and uneven. Just being in his presence was unpleasant. To Azariah’s eyes, he was as disgusting as his own new form, yet had Ashhur cursed Lord Richard? Of course not. He was fat because he was a glutton, unpleasant because he was cowardly and covetous. Weakness led to his ugliness. What weakness had the angels shown, other than a desire for Ashhur’s subjects to live by Ashhur’s rules?

“I am in charge of the soldiers here,” Richard said, puffing out his gut and trying to look intimidating. He failed miserably. “Three of your kind attacked my camp last night, and I demand to know the reason.”

Azariah stepped toward the lord. The line of soldiers rattled with the sound of raising shields and drawing swords.

“You demand?” Azariah asked. “Who are you to make demands of me, cur?”

Richard’s face turned a deep red.

“The man who has a hundred spears ready to throw into your gut, that’s who,” Richard said. “We have been attacked, and I will have justice. Once the crown hears of this...”

“
I
am the crown,” Azariah said. Speaking the words made the bones of his skull ache. “We have cast down humanity’s rulers. You have no stewards, no princes, no king. You lords will bow to Ashhur’s law, or you will bow in anticipation of the executioner’s blade. There is no other choice.”

“That’s preposterous!”

Azariah flashed the man a smile full of broken, blood-covered teeth.

“This world is preposterous,” he said. “It is a land of insanity, wretchedness, and sin. I will fix it, Richard Aerling, with or without your help. You have no one to appeal to, no courts or leaders to cry to for mercy. Only me, right here before you, telling you to kneel. Now will you kneel, or must I have Ezekai remove your head from your shoulders?”

For the slightest moment, Richard seemed ready to accept. Then his pride overruled his cowardice. A poor choice.

“No!” he shouted. “We will not accept your rule over our nation.”

“
We?
” Azariah asked, and he raised his voice so that it would carry throughout the forest. “You don’t seem to understand, Richard, but you do not speak for these people anymore. I have stripped you of your authority. Every man beside you bears the same power, and they bear the same choice. Will you die, or will you kneel? My angels are ready, and your numbers few. Die if you must, but know you die in vain.”

Richard was shaking now. He took a single step back, then pointed straight at Azariah.

“They’re blustering,” he cried. “Demons, evil creatures, all of them. Attack, attack now!”

No one moved.

Richard spun around, the red of his face draining out, replaced with a deathly white. “Do you not hear me?” His voice had already lost much of its gusto.

Instead of answering, one after another the soldiers dropped to one knee and dipped their heads. Just a few at first, a shield-bearer near the front, a few archers in the back, but each man or woman who kneeled convinced two more to do the same. When the entire army knelt in respect, Azariah clapped his hands, pleased.

“They will not die for you,” he told the lord. “They will only watch you die. Ezekai, reward Richard for his pride.”

Richard fled, but he barely made it past the first rank of soldiers before the angel grabbed him by his collar and flung him to the dirt. The lord sobbed hysterically, all while hurling curses at his former soldiers. Ezekai drew his sword and cut him in half, putting a thankful end to the blubbering. Azariah pointed to Ezekai, though the act was hardly necessary. All eyes were already on the angel who’d slain their lord.

“The angel before you is Ezekai, a trusted servant of Ashhur,” he said. “He will now command your forces. Mordeina is still a nest of filth, and we will need your help to flush out the rats.”

Ezekai bowed to Azariah in appreciation, then ordered the humans to begin dismantling their camp. Pleased by the day’s progress, Azariah turned to Judarius.

“Come,” he said. “We have a second army to find.”

Azariah had kept constant surveillance on the armies from Mordan and Ker, and he knew their clash had resulted in a stalemate that cost both sides dearly. Azariah expected King Bram Henley to flee to safety after such losses, but he’d had only a few days to gain ground on foot. Compared to their wings, it’d be a matter of hours.

They returned to the well-worn trade road and followed it south. Azariah used the time to dwell on the past five years, viewing things through newly opened eyes. The laws and practices of men had failed. Releasing the guilty regardless of their sin, so long as they repented, allowed a weak faith to blossom. Feelings of guilt didn’t last, Azariah realized. It only prevented the appropriate punishment. Scars, death, those could never be undone. They’d let grow beneath their feet an unruly, ungracious nation where guilty sinners repeated their sins, spitting in the face of those who granted them mercy.

When Ashhur cast them into his shadow, Azariah had been on the verge of building a new kingdom that would have fixed this. It would have conveyed the serious nature of sin to the weak believers. It would have removed the thorns that grew among the flowers. He’d seen the flaws in the current system years ago, and begun planning accordingly. He’d learned magic from Roand the Flame, and made deals with the Council to procure their help. Mankind would never accept the rule of angels while they floated above them in Avlimar, nor would his fellow angels understand how great a divide existed between them and the mortals until forced to live among their kind. Crashing Avlimar to the ground, casting blame onto Deathmask, having Judarius execute Thomas, it all had been leading up to the eventually taking of power away from humans and placing it into the hands of far better, wiser rulers: themselves.

And then Ashhur betrayed them.

Azariah felt his rage blossom anew. They declared mankind not fit to rule themselves, and demanded they follow Ashhur’s laws instead of their own. That was worth abandonment? That was what their god believed? Most angels were Wardens, and had been since the beginning. They were meant to guide mankind, to lead them...and then they were cast low for doing what they were made to do.

Azariah felt a shiver run through him as the land passed beneath in a gray blur. Both Karak and Ashhur were imperfect pieces of the whole god they once were. Perhaps once split, and lacking the balance and concepts of the other pieces, they could not fully understand the puzzle that was mankind. Such thoughts were beyond blasphemous, but it explained so much. It explained why Ashhur could not reconcile the wisdom of Azariah’s path. It explained why Karak would sacrifice life itself to reach true order. Imperfect pieces, needing to be united...

Judarius flew closer, drawing him from his thoughts. The angel didn’t need to say anything, for Azariah quickly spotted the army of Mordan marching upon the wide road like a winding snake. Banking upward to slow his speed, he spread his wings and took in the scene. By his estimate, King Bram had less than half of his original seven thousand soldiers he’d marched over the Bloodbrick with. A pitiful amount. Even at full strength, did the king truly think he could have assaulted the walls of Mordeina? Or perhaps he thought the people would rejoice and throw open the doors, eager for the man who had disavowed all gods to save them from Ashhur’s control?

Sickness squirming in his stomach, Azariah felt that a likely possibility. Better to be ruled by a man desiring only obedience than a god that demanded improvement and self-sacrifice. Perhaps that was humanity’s greatest flaw. They would willingly shackle themselves so long as the jailor told them their sins were not sins at all.