The Master of Angels

1st Day of Winter

767 Karloman’s Peace

"Hold!” a man called from atop the walls of Hirsau City, and Ekkehard brought his horse to a standstill. A ripple passed through the throng at his back, little more than a large, disorganised mob, as they also slowly came to a stop.

His followers were a ragged mix of the lost, numbering thousands. Among them were disillusioned citizens, repentant criminals, former soldiers turned deserters, and the hopeless turned hopeful. They had the appearance of refugees—ragged, tired, and desperate. A herd of lost sheep to some, a pack of starving wolves to others. Ekkehard looked back over his shoulder at them, and then up at the walls of the city. He wondered which image the men stationed upon them saw.

Rising tall from atop the gatehouse was the yellow roof of a wide, stubby tower that watched over the city's approach. It was haloed in gold by the setting sun, its last rays transitioning to the scarlet of the ending day. Standing upon its highest balcony, three floors above the gatehouse roof, was a man in thick, ornate leather armour, a grand purple plume jutting from his helm. The captain of the city guard, Ekkehard presumed.

It had been some time since his last visit to Hirsau, and Ekkehard wondered if he had met this captain before. Perhaps he had once known the man’s name. It was strange; he struggled to recognise the walls of the city before him. He had visited many times, entering through this very gatehouse. He had discussed the architectural genius of the standard gatehouse design with his father; he was sure of it. Yet, the walls looked unremarkable to him now, and he couldn’t clearly picture passing through them nor hear his father's words.

He took a deep breath of the southern air and tried to shake the fog from his mind. The air was colder than he expected, even for winter, and it stung his chest as he inhaled.

“Should I address this man on your behalf, Teacher?” Cnut asked, breaking Ekkehard from his musings. “Captain to captain.” A small group had joined him at the head of the procession—his command cadre. Among them were his Angel, his two brothers, Porfinn, Emich, Cnut, and Hjorvardr, along with a handful of new followers who had proven themselves capable over the previous season.

Ekkehard considered the request. Cnut had been captain of the city guard in Werth for many years. Perhaps that experience would allow him to connect and negotiate with the man on the wall. Ekkehard could not envision any scenario in which his demands would be met, however, and decided it would be a waste of Cnut’s efforts. “No,” Ekkehard answered. “Today, this man and I are responsible for the lives of every person in that city. I should impress upon him the weight of that burden myself. I see no reason why you should shoulder any of the guilt that follows.”

“As you wish,” Cnut said with a respectful bow of the head.

“Come, brothers,” Ekkehard said as he urged his horse forward, “the time has come for us to end this.” Gerwald, Florentin, and the Angel followed Ekkehard, separating them from the mass of filthy followers to speak with the man upon the wall.

Ekkehard and his brothers halted in the shadow of the gatehouse. “Go away,” the captain shouted down at them, each word spoken slowly as if to give them weight. Ekkehard sighed. A strange, low sound of grinding metal whispered from the Angel, echoing his frustration.

“I cannot do that,” Ekkehard called back.

“Yes, you can,” the captain countered. “Now go away.” Ekkehard sighed again.

So many could be saved if this captain would just listen. There was no need for Hirsau to burn. Not for Hanib. Not so that Ekkehard’s brothers could have their revenge. This was a family feud—Agilolfing and Reubke. It should be settled between them. The captain didn’t need to drag the people of Hirsau into their fight. Yet, Ekkehard knew he would.

It would be such a waste.

Part of Ekkehard wanted to let it all go. To abandon his feud with Hanib. He had already hurt the man, even if Hanib didn’t know it. Perhaps Ekkehard could move on to his real purpose—his new mission of building a new world. But in doing so, he would cheat his brothers of the closure they deserved and remain shackled to his own past. So, whether he liked it or not, this last bloody indulgence would happen.

“My name is Ekkehard Reubke,” he called out to the captain.

“I don’t care who you are,” the captain began to shout back, but Ekkehard cut him off before he could say anymore.

“I am of the Reubke family, from the Reubke manor, a few days' ride from the city,” Ekkehard explained. “You know me, or you know of me. Hanib Agilolfing convinced Governor Jung to declare my family heretics and sentenced us to death without trial. Hanib lied. Many of my family have been murdered. Today, we stand before you to hold Hanib Agilolfing accountable for his actions. We wish no harm upon the people of Hirsau. If you deliver Hanib to me, we will try him and be on our way.”

The soldiers on the wall sniggered, and Ekkehard watched as the old captain cupped his face in exasperation.

“Listen, you mad bastard, I have four hundred archers on this wall and two thousand more men waiting in the city. You have what? Two and a half thousand, maybe three thousand beggars and that parlour trick beside you. I don’t care who you are or what you claim—I am not going to hand a noble over to you. Now just fuck off before I give the order to have the whole sorry lot of you killed.”

Certain now that what was coming was unavoidable, Ekkehard felt a coldness settle over him, the colour draining from his face and the passion fading from his voice. “Hanib Agilolfing is to stand trial for his crimes today,” he stated in a monotone. His words were as much a plea as they were a declaration.

“By the Five!” the captain exclaimed. “Listen, it’s winter; you’ve got a lot of people. You should find somewhere to settle where you can feed them. Hirsau isn’t taking you in. You don’t have any authority to try anyone for crimes, real or imagined. Now, just go away.”

Ekkehard understood the captain's frustrations and didn’t blame him for them. In a way, the captain was trying to be just as merciful as Ekkehard. Yet, the captain didn’t understand that Ekkehard and his followers were not the ones in danger—he was. “I have all the authority I need to try Hanib,” Ekkehard shouted at the captain in one final attempt to avoid bloodshed. “I have the authority of Heaven.”

Ekkehard could hear the captain's sigh even from such a great distance. “And which god do you claim to serve?” the frustrated captain asked.

“There is but one god,” Ekkehard responded, “and his name is Truth.” His statement would be radical to the captain; he knew that, yet it was true. There were no gods; there was just the truth of that fact, and that truth had set Ekkehard free, just as it would soon set the captain free.

“Well, there we are then,” the captain replied. “A heretic after all. No need for a trial. Hanib told the truth. You’ve denounced the Five and spread lies. Now get out of here before I have you hauled before the executioner.”

“My god is more real than any of yours!” Ekkehard bellowed. “And he has sent here today an Angel. A bloody Angel. A crimson messenger of death. The Angel comes for Hanib. I ask that you do not stand in the Angel’s way.”

Ekkehard watched as the captain turned to say something to one of his soldiers. Instead of a verbal reply, an arrow whipped through the air and embedded itself in the dirt a meter ahead of Ekkehard. The horses he and his brothers were mounted on startled, and each rider had to struggle to calm their steed. Once the horses were steadied, Ekkehard knew he had his answer.

“Very well,” he whispered, turning his horse and leading his brothers and the Angel back to the waiting procession.

“They have chosen violence then?” Porfinn asked as Ekkehard and his brothers returned to the group.

“No,” Ekkehard replied, “they have chosen death.”

“Are you sure the Angel can do this?” Florentin questioned, his voice tinged with doubt. “I mean, we know it’s powerful, but this is an entire city we’re talking about. Can it even get through the gate?”

Ekkehard ignored his brother’s concern, turning his attention to the Angel. Seated on his horse, Ekkehard directly met the being's swirling, featureless face. The crimson mist swayed and shifted before him, and within its depths, the spark of its divinity glowed like a broiling ember. He stroked the spine of the Book of Heaven as he admired his serene servant.

He had become connected to the Angel, almost as if he could feel it, like an extension of his body. It obeyed him, bound to his will. He was its master. It would do as he asked without needing the command to be voiced. Yet, he voiced it all the same. This order needed to be witnessed—not just by those present, but by the world itself. The mortal realm needed to see that the power of heaven walked the earth. They needed to know that he was Ekkehard, Master of Angels, bringer of truth.

“Bring me Hanib,” Ekkehard commanded his crimson warrior, “destroy anyone who stands in your way.”

And thus, the Red Angel was unleashed.

A guttural exaltation howled from the being like a mighty, unearthly war horn. It resounded with such ferocity that the sky itself seemed to roil in response. It startled the people and their horses, all thrown into a frenzy.

With its war cry unleashed, the Angel turned its attention to Hirsau, breaking into a full sprint—its lanky form was a grotesque parody of man, darting toward the gatehouse. Commotion erupted on the wall, and long before the Angel reached it, a cluster of arrows flew from it. Many missed, embedding themselves in the ground around the being, while a few struck home, passing harmlessly through its fog-like form. Panic set in among the defenders then, and a volley of hundreds of arrows followed. These, too, did nothing to stop the Angel.

As the gatehouse neared, the Angel halted about thirty meters away, standing in its shadow. It arched backwards, and Ekkehard noted the telltale sign of a growing yellow glow—flames building beneath his warrior's red form. From its face, the Angel unleashed its invisible heat ray. The beam would have been unnoticeable if not for the haze of shimmering air emitting from the Angel and along the trajectory of the blast. That, and for the havoc it caused.

The Angel did not linger the ray on any individual target. It whipped the beam back and forth along the top of the city wall. Those struck by the beam burst into flames instantly, screaming as their flesh sizzled and cooked. They ran madly around the battlements. Others, just clipped by the ray, were thrown back by its intensity, sparks exploding from their brief contact with it.

The Angel then focused its beam on the tower, cutting slowly upward through its midriff. Ekkehard couldn’t see if the captain was struck, but soon, the wooden supports of the tower were either cut in half or had gone up in flames. The tower collapsed in on itself, and all those within were surely dead.

Then, the Angel was running again.

With a near-effortless shoulder barge, the central gate of the city gatehouse burst open, and the Angel vanished into the courtyard beyond. The guards at the fore of the city walls forgot about the waiting horde of refugees beyond and turned their attention to the courtyard.

Smoke and distance made it impossible to see what was happening within the city walls, but Ekkehard knew the outcome of the guard’s effort. Soon, the inner gatehouse tower had also fallen, and the Angel would have made it to the city proper. The guards on the walls were scattered.

A man stepped beside Ekkehard. He and many others had edged forward from the throng of supplicants. The young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, turned and looked up at Ekkehard. Judging by his muscular upper body and the poor quality of his attire, Ekkehard suspected he was a labourer. Despite his evident strength, the man bore a hungry visage. His cheeks were taut, and his skin stretched tight from days of rationing. He held an axe in one hand, his eyes filled with awe and worship as he gazed at Ekkehard.

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“Yes,” the man whispered to himself. “Yes,” he said louder, making sure Ekkehard could hear. “Yes!” he shouted, turning to the rest of the throng behind him, raising his axe in the air. “Yes!” he screamed, his voice filled with sheer bloodlust as he began to run toward the city gates.

Hundreds more followed him, then hundreds more again, until nearly half of those behind Ekkehard were rushing, weapons raised, into the city gates. Cnut drew his sword, the metal ringing loudly as he did, and looked to Ekkehard. Ekkehard nodded, and Cnut spurred his horse forward, rushing to lead the men. Porfinn and Hjorvardr joined him, along with many of the newcomers.

Only his brothers, Emich and a few others, remained from his command cadre. They waited patiently, giving the attackers time to cut deep into the city. When enough smoke was rising, Ekkehard urged his horse slowly forward, the less bloodthirsty members of his congregation following him into the city.

Ekkehard passed through the shattered first gate and into the courtyard beyond. Bodies were strewn across the space.

The handful of run-down buildings within the courtyard were all on fire. Even the newly built tax office, with its sapphire roof, was collapsing. Most of the dead had been felled by mortal hands, but the evidence of those who had met the Angel was unmistakable. Bodies bent and torn by ethereal strength were scattered among the tattered remains of others.

Passing through the second gate, Ekkehard entered the chaos of the city proper. The Angel had carved a path into the heart of the city, a channel of burning buildings marking its way. Elsewhere, Ekkehard's fervent followers were pillaging and looting. Screams and shouts mixed with the crackling of flames and the ringing of battle. The air was heavy, tasting of ash and death.

Amidst the desolation, Ekkehard lifted his gaze to the sky, where clouds of black smoke roiled, staining the crimson tinge of the setting sun.

Looking down, Ekkehard found himself standing upon a barren land. The soil beneath his feet was dry and cracked, unforgiving in its grief, seeking vengeance for the murder of the once fertile earth that had nurtured abundant life. This place had been reduced to cinders by the grim demands of his new calling.

A tapestry of acrid smoke and scorched earth, tainted with the bitter tang of charred remnants, hung heavily in the air, suffocating any remaining vestiges of life. A dense smog lingered; within it, twisting malevolent flames danced, mocking the memory of hope. Where once floral sweetness and the musk of earth floated above tranquil reflecting waters, now only blackness and the stench of destruction remained. Memories cherished were choked and charred within the madness of the place.

In the heart of this devastation stood a singular, towering tree, its form grotesque and gnarled. It blazed with an unholy fire, its trunk a pillar of inferno reaching into the heavens, its branches sprawling outward to cast a suffocating canopy over the dead land. Ashen flakes drifted down like perverted petals upon a parched earth, where no water flowed, and the silence was broken only by the harsh crackling of relentless fire.

The fire seemed alive—a sentient force feasting on the remnants of his once lush haven. The tree was not its source; it was its victim, consumed like the land around it by its proximity to him. A hollow coldness enveloped Ekkehard even as the fires raged. It was like the absence of an embrace wrapping around him, devoid of solace. Beneath his feet, the ground was unyielding in its attempts to burn him, its heat seeping through his soles, yet he felt nothing.

His connection to this blasted earth had been severed.

With each breath he drew, the air felt like a curse lifted, tainted with the bittersweetness of his own transformation, a purity lost to the flames of his own making. The land, once a sanctuary for him, was now a testament to ruin. No creature dared claim this charred expanse, where the indiscriminate hunger of his flames devoured purpose.

He looked beyond the tree to the distant horizon. The growing expanse of his garden had forced back the walls that once caged him, but they had always remained before. Now, he saw that the walls that had confined him—the iron barriers of his past imprisonment—lay melted, twisted, and reshaped by the heat.

Above, the sky had transformed into a tumultuous canvas, broiling fumes birthing a storm of red lightning and thunder so deafening it seemed to shake the very ground. Rain fell, but it was not the nurturing kind. This was a black rain, heavy and toxic, each drop sizzling as it met the searing earth. Ekkehard watched, his eyes unblinking, as the rain carved ephemeral rivers in the ash, creating a dark, oily parody of water.

His body, once attuned to the warmth and coolness of nature, now stood detached and unaffected amidst the inferno. The intense heat surrounding him did not touch his skin; he neither perspired nor burned. He was an island of apathy in a sea of ruin, a silent observer of the ending he had wrought.

His silence was broken.

Something else was in his dead land. A sound. A sound that carried over the crackling of the burning tree and the booming of scarlet thunder.

It was a voice. A soft and desperate voice. A woman’s voice. She was begging.

Ekkehard turned, trying to find the source. A torrent of great wind whipped smoke around him as he walked toward it. As he pressed nearer to the speaker, the wind grew in strength, threatening to cast him into the depths of his desolate world.

Then, he saw her.

A young woman. He did not know her, but something about her was familiar to him. Something in the shape of her face. Something in the tone of her voice. Like a childhood friend lost but reacquainted with decades later.

She was on her knees, leaning over the body of a young man. “Please!” she whispered.

Ekkehard crept closer. She was shaking the young man, but he did not wake. He was draped in armour, practical and plain but finely crafted, and he was bleeding. Blood had soaked his clothes in a deep black, seeping from a gaping wound inflicted by the claw of some great beast that wept from the young man’s stomach.

“Please, Leone,” the young woman begged the dead man, “please get up. I need you.”

Something startled her, and she looked up at Ekkehard, deep brown eyes wide with fear. Ekkehard stepped backwards in shock, his heart thundering. There had never been anyone else in his garden before. How was this intruder here, he wondered. She did not react to him, however. He realised it was not him that had frightened her, and he turned to follow her gaze.

Something sinister was lurking within the smoke of his dead world. He could not see it, but somehow, he knew it could see him. Ekkehard looked back at the young woman, fearful the creature would strike her. Something lay beside her upon a stone floor. A small golden light emanated from a golden orb upon a staff.

“Find the Stone,” a new voice echoed through the place.

Ekkehard’s head throbbed at the sound of the words. The girl and the dead boy were gone, the staff as well, and the creature in the dark. The new voice banished all. It was not soft. It was powerful and commanding, speaking with the cadence of a perfectly synchronised choir that echoed throughout the universe. The briefest flash of a face passed before Ekkehard’s eyes—a man more beautiful and perfect than any he had seen.

The sheer weight of the speaker's voice drove Ekkehard’s world mad. The sky swirled into the ground. The flames of the tree took the form of a great phoenix rising into the sky. Red lightning became golden lettering, branded into the fabric of the place.

Ekkehard thought his world would consume him.

Then, a third and final voice pulled him free.

“Cheldric!” the man shouted.

Lurching free of his trance, Ekkehard yanked the reins of his horse with unintentional force. Startled, his mount protested, whining at the sudden outburst and nearly bucking him from the saddle. Disoriented, Ekkehard struggled to regain control of the creature.

His vision swam, and his head throbbed painfully. His eyes stung from the heavy billows of black smoke, and he choked on the bitter, acrid air. Squinting, he tried to place himself. He was in the city, moving up the main road. They were perhaps a mile in, not far from the Administration Sector walls. The buildings flanking the road were all aflame.

What happened to me? he wondered. He had been at the gatehouse only seconds before—he was sure of it. How had he travelled so far so quickly, and why did his head hurt so much? The pain pounded within his skull, threatening to split it open. He almost wished it would, to relieve the unbearable pressure building inside. No such comfort came. The throbbing persisted.

Through squinted eyes, Ekkehard scanned the area around him, searching for the man who had shouted. He spotted him—a peasant in ragged, sweat-soaked clothes at the side of the road. He was desperately trying to pull away wooden beams and other debris blocking the entrance to a burning house. Ekkehard watched as the man gripped a beam and recoiled, wincing as the scorching wood burned his hands.

"Cheldric!" the man shouted again.

He peered through the smoke billowing from the house as if searching for signs of life. Then he turned and spotted Ekkehard and his companions. The man ran over to them. "Please," he begged, "my son is inside; he's just a boy. Please help me."

Ekkehard stared at the man. The house was collapsing, and it had been burning for some time. Anyone inside would be dead; that much was obvious. Yet, this man was trying to save a son he knew he couldn’t, willing to face the flames to keep the tiniest flicker of hope alive. Cheldric, Ekkehard thought, that was what the man had called his son, Cheldric. The name stirred something in Ekkehard's mind. I know that name. I’ve heard it before.

“Teacher,” another voice drew Ekkehard’s attention.

Turning, Ekkehard saw that Emich had dismounted his horse and come to stand beside him. In his hands, he held something—a great golden tome, The Book of Heaven. Ekkehard must have dropped it when he startled his horse. Had I been reading it? He didn’t recall opening the book, yet it had been in his lap when he heard the man call. So, I must have been reading it, mustn’t I?

Ekkehard’s body, like the desperate father’s, was drenched in sweat. The heavy robes of the Hofamat clung to him, weighed down by the moisture they now carried. Yet, despite the heat, Ekkehard felt cold. A shiver ran through him as he thought he might have lost the tome. He snatched it from Emich’s hands, pulling it jealously to his chest. Emich stepped back, startled, but bowed respectfully before returning to his mount when he realised no retribution was forthcoming.

Hugging the massive book, Ekkehard allowed calmness and clarity to return. He remembered now that he had decided to read while they journeyed to the city's heart. The noise and destruction around him were hardly a distraction from the amazement of its pages.

“Please, sir,” the father begged again, “can you and your men help me save my son?”

Ekkehard looked back at the man and, with the certainty granted by the Book of Heaven, saw him for what he was: insignificant. A pathetic distraction, another delay trying to hold him back from his true purpose. The man disgusted him with his insolence.

“Please,” the man repeated.

“No,” Ekkehard replied.

He turned away from the man, deaf to whatever curses followed, and urged his horse onward. The man must have attempted to harm Ekkehard because seconds later, Emich cut him down. Or had Ekkehard ordered it? He wasn’t sure. Either way, the man was a wretch who deserved to die. He had interrupted Ekkehard’s reading.

The Book of Heaven was unlike any other book. It was unforgivable for anyone to interrupt his consumption of its knowledge.

The main road leading to the city's centre was strewn with signs of chaos. Bloodied and beaten bodies lay scattered, cast-off supplies abandoned by looters spilled across the ground, and everywhere, there was fire and smoke.

Through a haze of heat and madness, the Red Angel strode back to Ekkehard, carrying a limp, broken body in one hand by the scruff of the neck, its legs dragging along the ground. Hanib Agilolfing was brought before his tribunal by heaven’s own justiciar.

The Angel stopped a few meters from Ekkehard and his companions, casting the frail form of the old man to the ground. Hanib landed in a collapsing, pathetic heap at the foot of Ekkehard’s horse. He tried to stand but couldn’t lift himself off the ground. One of his arms trembled, held closely to his chest, broken in several places. He must have struggled against Ekkehard’s Angel and paid the price for it.

Blood stained the Hanib’s trousers. The Angel had dragged him through the Administrative Sector, his legs scraping along the rough surface of dirt and stone roads, tearing the flesh of his legs. Unable to stand, Hanib knelt instead, craning his head upward with a stuttering neck to look at Ekkehard.

He was snivelling. The cragged old face that had once borne an intimidating dourness was now defeated, tired, and mewling. His hair, more salt than pepper, was matted with blood and dirt clumped across his face. As he recognised the man in the priestly robes sitting on the horse before him, his expression shifted from helplessness to defiance. Nostrils flared with deep inhales as Hanib’s hatred surfaced.

“If you expect me to beg,” Hanib spat, “you’ll be disappointed, boy.”

“Let me cut his fucking head off,” Gerwald hissed through gritted teeth from behind Ekkehard. He didn’t turn to acknowledge his brother, keeping his focus on the villain before him. In Ekkehard’s memory, the man had seemed more than he was. Now, looking at the beaten and broken form of Hanib, Ekkehard understood the futility of their feud. Hanib was an insect.

His hatred and greed were the flaws of a lesser man, one whose destiny was forever bound to the mundane. A little bit of land, a little bit of coin, a little bit of blood. These were the concerns of mortals. Hanib was a footnote in Ekkehard’s journey; he could see that now.

Accepting this truth, Ekkehard found he didn’t feel rage or satisfaction. He felt distance and shame—shame that he had wasted so much time, effort, and emotion on a man who was, in so many ways, unremarkable. Shame that he had allowed himself to be affected by the normalities of life to such a degree. Grief and rage, love and vengeance—such basic things. They meant nothing, and he knew that now. There were grander designs to see to.

Hanib didn’t matter.

Ekkehard looked to his Angel. The being was a perfect embodiment of his will—an instrument of pure purpose. With the Angel by his side, Ekkehard realised he held the power to reshape the world, to reform it into something new, something better. The Angel had already brought him reverent followers willing to fight and die for him. It had subdued a city of thousands in a single evening and had dragged a despot from the safety of his glass tower. As Ekkehard surveyed the burning city, the screams, and the chaos, he closed his eyes and chastised himself.

He had squandered his gift.

He possessed the power to craft the very heavens, yet he had used it to settle a petty, personal vendetta. How low he had stooped. How selfish he had been. He had focused on punishing the man responsible for his own suffering when he had the power to hold accountable those responsible for the suffering of all.

He was an embarrassment.

He would be so no longer.

“Come,” Ekkehard commanded his Angel. He pulled his horse's reins, turned away from Hanib, and began his journey out of the city.

“What?” Gerwald asked, aghast as Ekkehard made his leave. “You’re just going to leave him?”

“Ekkehard, we came all this way,” Florentin added, bewildered.

“Do what you want with him, brothers,” Ekkehard replied, his voice calm and detached. “I am done with this man.”

Ekkehard never witnessed the final fate of Hanib Agilolfing. He assumed his brothers had killed the man, but it no longer concerned him. As Ekkehard left the City of Hirsau, a red shadow at his back, he focused on the Book of Heaven. Its pages revealed to him a grand design that would take decades, perhaps even centuries, to unfold—a plan that would change the world.

For too long, humanity had sought solace from absent gods. Ekkehard would give them a real one—a living god. He would become the god humanity deserved. He was Ekkehard Reubke, Master of Angels, King of Heaven on Earth, and he would show the people the truth.

And the truth? The truth would set them free.