The Sport of Angels

Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

Messengers were sent to tell the host that Thi had come. Thi, ruler of the Olathion sky—maker of life, light and darkness. Thi, Lord of all gods. “Our Lord has come,” The Summoner’s High Captain, Etheldred bade them tell.

Even before Captain Etheldred’s company had reached the army’s perimeter, horses, carts and heralds were sent to meet them. Mounted knights arrayed in similar fashion to Etheldred rode up bearing high banners and escorted them to a large horse drawn cart.

Loche now watches the green land pass and the massive host of gods draw ever nearer. Loche holds Julia’s hand. She grips him desperately. She is pale and having difficulty staying conscious. She has not spoken or made a sound since she beheld the sprawling army. Rathinalya. Edwin sits on his lap—but there is no sign of his young son in the boy’s face. Instead, a foreign, calm curiosity is seated there. He appears fascinated and thoughtful. Etheldred sits beside him on the wagon.

“We have arrived,” The Anglo Saxon captain says in his own tongue, but Loche can still somehow understand him. “Our brothers and sisters from across the great waters. We come from every homestead, hamlet and distant desert. Over endless seas, to destroy the City of Immortals. From armies along the coastlands from deep within the mountains, we are called. We are Thi’s army. We have come to do Its will. We are God.”

He slaps Loche’s shoulder, “The joy! That with the sunrise on a single, fateful day, you awaken as a god. One of a legion of angels.” He motions to the armed city ahead, “All of us woke with the same memory. The knowledge! The power! We can speak beyond our own languages—our stories are shared—we feel Thi’s creation as a man, yet for the first time in our mortal lives, we know what we are somewhere deep within us—we are gods and men together.” He bows his head to Edwin. “And Thi has called upon us to destroy Wyn Avuqua.” He looks darkly upon Julia, “Destroy those that rebel against Thi’s will. And lay in ruin Wyn Avuqua and her people, we shall.”

He spits. “The Itonalya! Murderers. Now we know who they are. Thi has shown us. Now is the time for our revenge. Murderers, killers—god killers. Look,” Loche sees the perimeter gate opening for their entry. Horns blast. Cheers resonate from behind the timber barriers. “This army knows the horrors they’ve committed. We shall not allow a single Immortal to survive.”

As the cart clatters within the wooden battlements, Loche feels the weight of many eyes upon him. The clamor of shouting voices and cheers rises as they enter. Underneath the noise, Loche hears a woeful baying—a horrible cry of pain.

Etheldred says, “I will now take you to our Summoner and General. She comes from my island over the sea. She is great beyond my ability to tell. Of the lore of gods and our new awakening, she is the teacher. She knows the path between life here and the Hereafter. Unlike any of this host, she has been here before.”

“Dad?” Edwin says.

When Loche turns he discovers the source of the writhing scream. At first he is not able to discern what he is seeing but he instinctively reaches to his son, covering his eyes and pulls him into his embrace.

Surrounded by a large number of jeering soldiers is an elevated platform upon which, lying flat and restrained, is a naked man. Leather straps secure a small, black iron cage to his abdomen. Just beside the platform, an ebony robed soldier is stoking a bright fire. A bellows pushes out walls of heat. A thick metal rod is pulled from the red coals. It glows pink in the cool, grey morning. The robed man lifts the rod and rests its incandescent end atop the iron cage. The ring of soldiers let out a frenzy of shouts and cheers.

The restrained man’s mournful cry rises above the din.

Loche squints when he thinks he sees movement within the black cage. As he focuses, two dark shapes are scurrying and scrabbling against the iron bars. A moment later he notes pools of blood streaming to the edges of the platform.

Loche feels a hand slap upon his turned shoulder. When he turns, Etheldred is grinning.

“Oh, worry not, Julia, immortal,” He says to her. “This is not that poor Itonalya’s first time. He cannot die in this manner. But we shall place him beneath the rodents again before midday. His suffering is joy to us. Perhaps you will provide us with such pleasure, if my master wills it.”

Another scream. Loche holds both Julia and Edwin tighter to him. Swiveling back, he sees within the iron cage two slate grey, frenetic rats struggling to escape the glowing metal rod just above them. The heat forces the ravenous creatures to claw and burrow down through the man’s abdomen. A white foam clumps and piles beside his wriggling form. His screams turn to moans.

“Make it stop!” Julia cries suddenly.

Helpless, Loche lets his eyes flit from the torture, to Julia, to his son and halt upon Etheldred. He studies the madness spreading across the man’s face. He sees a semblance of humankind, but a missing aspect that he cannot pinpoint, as if the man is devoid of life force—or the knowledge of love. It is as if Etheldred lacks the conditions that light a human from within. Loche feels a sudden shock as he considers the notion that Etheldred lacks what he can only name a soul.

The wagon stops beside three large pavilions.

“And now,” Etheldred says, standing. “Now we shall have counsel with my Lord.”

At that moment, two men seize Julia from beside the cart’s railing. They yank her down by one arm and a handful of her hair to the muddied path. From behind, two men pull Edwin away from Loche. As he feels his son’s hands let go, he turns. Etheldred’s gloved fist lands three vicious blows to the side of his head. Loche falls back. “You befriend an immortal, you are our enemy,” Etheldred growls. Julia begins to cry out. Edwin is now high up on the guard’s shoulders and steadily moving away deeper into the massive encampment. A train of soldiers gather and follow cheering and calling out to the little boy. Loche reaches toward his son. Edwin looks back. Another crippling blow blurs Loche’s eyesight.

“Edwin!” he coughs.

Amid the fury of sound, Loche hears the tortured immortal cry out again.

“This sound on the wind,” Etheldred is almost singing as he leans down to Loche’s slumped body, “will be the sound of all of Wyn Avuqua in the coming days. Slaying the enemies of God is the sport of angels. Our Lord has commanded, and we shall obey.”