Zarmand in the summer was as cruel and oppressive a place as any Duronaht knew. A scent of damp rot always seemed to hang over the city, especially when the schools of Prongtails would die after mating and decay along the riverbanks. It looked pretty from a distance on Zarmand’s castle lookouts, the sun catching the Prongtails’ lovely blue and gold scales. However, when they putrefied they produced an odious stench without few rivals.

What did rival them was the fetid air from the northern part of the city where teeming masses of deeply impoverished subjects resided in perpetually wretched conditions. The winds tended to whip those odors south toward the castle, which sat on the central portion of the western bank of the Vigrahn River in an impressively high-walled citadel. Caught between the rotting fish and the winds from the north, the castle was often unbearable for Duronaht. As badly as the stench bothered him, however, his wife, Queen Torhess, suffered far worse.

That morning, he sat in the royal bedchamber at the foot of their bed rubbing her badly aching feet. Her malady, referred to as the “tightening,” caused her extremities to spasm and twist in a manner that could only be relied on to be unpredictable. Some days it struck her far worse than others, but over time it would become worse and worse until she could not move.

Despite the twitches and contractions of her feet, Duronaht observed that his wife was sleeping comparatively well. Her long black hair formed a wreath around her narrow head, which sunk deep into the pillow. He continued to massage her feet until she awoke. Her eyelids slowly opened to reveal her brilliant blue eyes.

“Good morning, my love,” Duronaht smiled at her. She formed a frail trace of a smile in return. “How do you feel?”

“Not well enough that you can stop,” she laughed, pointing at her feet. Duronaht smiled and redoubled his efforts. “But it’s not so bad today.”

“Will you be going to the gardens then?” Duronaht asked.

Torhess stretched out her left hand, opening and closing it several times. The motions were rigid, but passable.

“I think I can manage it today,” Torhess laughed. “Will you join me?”

Duronaht’s face sagged because he truly wished he had control over his time to have enough leisurely moments. As it was, he knew he had the exalted company of Parlon, and an assortment of eastern lords, that would dominate his day.

“I’m afraid I can’t. Duties are infringing again,” he said mournfully, rubbing his hands on her feet again. He felt a coldness flow through her skin.

“I understand,” she said, her smile fading and her eyes seemingly sinking deep into her head.

His stomach turned seeing her become so sullen. He crawled up the bed to lie on top of her, clutching her tightly in his embrace.

“I will try to make sure I’m back for dinner and tomorrow will be different, I promise,” he said, looking straight into her eyes.

Her lids fell shut and she quivered. Any time he left her alone she would be like this. Attempts to reassure her she was not being abandoned failed. Many times, she confessed to him that the pains she suffered made the whole world feel distant to her.

“You’d best be off then,” she mumbled. “You have a kingdom to rule. Don’t dwell on me.”

“This kingdom doesn’t mean very much to me if you’re not with me to share it,” Duronaht whimpered, pulling her close.

“That’s so… pathetic,” she laughed and ran her hand through his hair.

He chortled, closed his eyes, and kissed her lips, which twitched and felt cold. Avoiding any appearance of dismay was impossible. Duronaht could sense the sickened grimace he made. He turned away from Torhess without opening his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see her reaction to his discomfort. Without saying anything more, he left the chamber.

His descent down the cramped central spiral staircase that morning was an especially dismal one. Attempting to shake his dread over his wife’s condition proved futile. He stopped to wipe back tears several times. As he neared the doors to the great hall at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped to undertake a familiar ritual. He breathed, closed his eyes, and shook his arms and legs before straightening himself. His queen’s struggles were swiftly expunged from his mind and he formed a broad smile.

With a deep breath, he opened the heavy wooden doors into the glorious great hall. Aside from Solnaht in Methrangia, no castle in all of Vorlanys had such an imposing chamber. Two dozen fire red stone pillars, each as thick as four men, soared into the dark brown stone vaults above at regular intervals. The vaults themselves were painted with images from Methrangia’s triumphant history of conquests in the east in powerful bold colors. Wondrous sculptures of the angelic pantheon were carved into the brownish red marble walls on all sides. The floor was the only underwhelming aspect of the hall as it was just a massive, though fading, mosaic of the imperial seal and the seals of the various realms that had been subsumed into the empire.

Standing between the two pillars nearest the door was Duronaht’s usual retinue of advisors and noble sycophants, all dressed in well-appointed riding attire. First among them was Feradnor, his chief advisor and one of the wealthiest men in Zarmand. Feradnor was a fat, short, and bald man with a broad nose and a series of hairy moles on his cheeks. Most had overlooked Feradnor in the court due to his appearance, but Duronaht found that his physical features belied a cunning mind.

“My lords!” Duronaht boomed as he stepped forward. The retinue all bowed to their king. “And how are all of you this fine morning? I’m amazed some of you are standing after what I saw you drink last night.”

They burst out laughing. Indeed, many of the lords had been quite indisposed the prior evening with some even having collapsed in the courtyard. There had been no great occasion for the festivities other than Duronaht’s insatiable desire to demonstrate his generosity.

“I was suffering, Your Majesty, but another flagon of wine did the trick,” Lord Golious roared. He was a thickly bearded and heavily muscled man who, even at sixty, had impressive energies.

“If only the apothecaries knew the cure to poison was more poison,” Feradnor quipped to muted chuckles. “Your Majesty, Parlon awaits you with the others at Erlaht.”

“Very good and… others?” Duronaht queried in surprise.

Feradnor straightened up as the others sheepishly looked in different directions.

“Yes, Jagreth and Aberos will be joining us today,” Feradnor said with an attempt to maintain a sense of normality. “If I understand it correctly, Parlon wanted it to be a grand occasion.”

Despite his initial apprehensions, Duronaht became excited at the prospect. Any chance to prove his friendship with still more angels would be well worth his effort. An ally of the angels could not do anything other than command the greatest respect. He almost jumped at the chance.

“Is there anything else before we go?” the king asked.

Several awkward glances were exchanged between the gathered members of the court. Curse it all! Whenever they do this it means they’re hiding something!

“Your Majesty,” Lord Golious rumbled, “Marshal Vildrious is asking for more assistance against Bohruum incursions into the northern frontier. I’ve told him that we’ll be sending as much as we can. Your father, the emperor I should say, commands almost all reserve…”

“Yes, I understand,” Duronaht interrupted. “We’ve given him over 100,000 men. What more can he want? I’ve got full confidence that he can prevail.”

“Bohruum is probing almost along the entire Segrison Marche,” Feradnor lamented. “They must have at least 200,000 soldiers massed up there. As I understand it, they essentially intend to bleed us dry rather than mount a full invasion.”

Various matters unique to the eastern portion of the Methrangian Empire drained Duronaht, but the Bohruum menace was something else entirely. Four hundred miles north of Mount Hetras, theirs was a kingdom of massive furred beasts four heads taller than an ordinary man and possibly thrice as strong, if the stories were to be believed. Emperors had tried and failed to bring Bohruum under heel for centuries to no avail. The supply lines always got strained, the armies withered and died, and eventually peace had to be sought. For those incursions, however, Bohruum sought revenge. Methrangia had always been too proud to offer an apology or seek forgiveness. And so the steady drip of violence went on.

“I’ll ask fath… the Emperor again,” Duronaht proudly chirped. “I’m sure he’ll want to protect all of the empire’s territory.”

“We could look at some concessions and see if it will buy them off for…” Feradnor offered, but Duronaht cut him off.

“Oh no no no no no. No need for any of that. I’m sure that we can prevail through all of this,” the King said, laughing nervously. “We can talk more after the hunt.”

The gathering of his court nodded and mumbled in limp agreement.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s be off!” Duronaht commanded.

Erlaht had been the key site of Duronaht’s family’s retreats into the countryside for the better part of three centuries. Game hunting was ample, especially some of the great cumbersome beats of the southeast. Qordogans in particular. They were hulking creatures, as long as ten horses with red spotted brown leathery skin. Possessing long necks and broad mouths, they could leisurely gorge on leaves atop the tall trees in the area.

The Qordogans, more commonly called Qords, were able to defend themselves to great effect with their immense size and whip-like tails. With hearty aggression and such power, they were considered worthy game for all of the greatest hunters in Vorlanys.

Greatest among all of those hunters was the creator of many of Vorlanys’s great beasts, the crimson angel Jagreth. A massive brute himself, he stood fully three heads above even the tallest of Duronaht’s guards and appeared twice as broad. His shining crimson skin wrapped around bulging muscles and was obscured in limited places by minimal iridescent platinum armor. Physically imposing as he was, he still had both a long spear and a spiked war hammer strapped to his back.

Jagreth stood on a rocky rise overlooking a group of Qords who grazed comfortably on a patch of trees to the north. Aberos stood next to Jagreth, whispering in a pitch that Duronaht could not hear. Parlon, standing off to the side, glided over toward Duronaht and his retinue.

“My dearest king,” Parlon whimsically intoned. “The hunt is already underway.”

Indeed, a party of hunters swept across the open ground below the hill and toward the opposite rise where the nearest Qord stood alone. Each of the hunters carried a long spear, almost two men in length. Without the necessary reach, Qords could swipe and stomp on a hunter with little notice. Duronaht had actually seen such a hunt go wrong. A distant cousin once was beaten to death under the Qords’ massive hooves while the imperial family watched in horror. From that moment onward, Duronaht had pledged to never join in on the hunts himself. Watching them was sufficient to fulfill his kingly duties.

“Are they hunting, too?” Duronaht asked, glaring over at the other two angels.

“They are only here to watch,” Parlon replied. “It would be most poor form for us to so interfere.”

“Understood,” Duronaht acknowledged Parlon with a simpering smile.

The hunting party split into two prongs descending on the unsuspecting Qord. Duronaht knew how this would go. Two spears to the throat. It would then rear up and get stabbed in the belly and the rear. That would cause it to spin around in circles as it attempted to lash out in confusion. Slowly, it would bleed out, tumble over and die. It was standard practice of the Zarmandian hunters. The experienced hands knew what to do. There was almost never any suspense.

Except, this time, there were novices among the hunters. One of them lunged too soon. He stuck his spear uselessly in the Qord’s shoulder. The great beast reared up and swiped its tail into the other prong of the hunting party. Hapless hunters flew every which way. Duronaht sighed as he stood by Parlon. The angel, however, cackled in oddly pleasant staccato bursts.

Surviving hunters all jabbed wildly into the beast’s flanks. It roared in a deep rumble that shook the ground. Duronaht could feel it in his bones down to his feet. Even from a distance, the king could see the Qord’s guts spilling out of the holes cut in its abdomen.

“This is a travesty!” Jagreth bellowed as he drew his spear. “Fools!”

Jagreth lunged into the air and flew hundreds of feet down onto the Qord. It looked at him with an almost mournful gaze. Duronaht could feel it. The Qord looked at Jagreth as though he was its parent, or so it seemed. The huntsman angel took his spear and slid it straight across the Qord’s throat. Blood gushed down onto the ground, drenching some of the hapless hunters in a crimson tide.

“Mortals need to have enough respect for their own to give them a clean death. Such a pity,” Aberos boomed in his resonant voice as he approached the king. “Your Majesty’s subjects are cruel.”

“Not all of them,” Parlon interjected, cackling. “But these are.”

Duronaht shrugged his shoulders and chuckled.

“A king can only be responsible for so much,” he laughed. “Idiots are idiots no matter who rules them. I think it was my father who taught me that.”

Parlon smirked at the king. Those words were mine, the angel’s lyrical voice echoed in Duronaht’s head. Never forget that.

Jagreth soon returned from the site of the kill, a grim scowl overcoming his face. Duronaht bowed in deference to the hulking angel.

“My apologies for my huntsmen,” Duronaht offered in a joking voice. “They can use some humiliation. Did they all live?”

“Unfortunately, they did,” Jagreth growled. “Pathetic curs. They are fortunate I did not slit their throats.”

“Oh, I’m so glad that you didn’t, my Angelic Lord,” Duronaht giggled, bowing again. “I shall issue an edict making it unlawful for anyone to so torture these wonderful creatures. Will that please you?”

The angel nodded and stomped off, Aberos at his side, putting his hand on Jagreth’s back. Parlon began singing a somber tune, while the king watched his huntsmen begin to skin the beast. After some minutes, Parlon floated in front of Duronaht and ceased his song. His golden eyes locked tightly on the King of Zarmand.

“Your Majesty is troubled? Does the queen still ail?” he asked.

Duronaht smiled and attempted to wave off the concern.

“She’s as strong as ever. She’s back at the castle doing more things each hour than I can do in a day,” he said with unconvincing confidence.

“Your Majesty, please, the truth,” Parlon scolded.

Duronaht whimpered and he couldn’t mask it any longer.

“It’s gotten worse,” he cried, looking away from the angel. “Most days she just lays there. I… I’d give my own legs if it meant she could be what she was before this sickness.”

Visions shot through his mind of the first days of Torhess’s illness some years ago. She tumbled down one of Solnaht’s smaller staircases as her legs gave out from under her. Her terror robbed him of all joy for weeks while the priests and healers tried to determine what was happening to her. They had evaded telling Duronaht and Torhess the cruel truth of the matter for as long as they could. When at last the words “the Tightening” were uttered, they hit cruelly. Duronaht had held out all hope that it was something not as dire. Most would be lucky to live ten years with the disease. She had now lived seven.

“There are those of my brethren who could heal her, but we are forbidden from doing so,” Parlon mournfully said.

“Could you?” Duronaht pleaded. “Even if it meant defying the High Angel, could you do it? Do you have the power?”

Parlon shook his head and let out an aura of despair that caused Duronaht’s heart to sink deep into his stomach.

“I cannot, but there are those among us who could.”

“Who?” he asked. “To whom should I plead?”

Parlon stared back silently. The angel’s silence was unnerving and Duronaht lost his composure as a consequence. Frustrations from his father’s continual refusal to provided assistance regarding the King of Bohruum’s constant attacks on his borders also danced in his mind.

“And who will save me from these Bohruum pests nibbling at my borders?” Duronaht screamed.

Parlon smiled, his amethyst eyes turning warmer.

“We can aid you.”