Of course, there was still the matter of the whip burning into the stone-tough flesh of his neck. He grabbed it with his hand and yanked, sending Qurrah tumbling back down the stairs. The whip released its grip and snaked back to its master like a living thing.

The smoke from the whip blurred Thulos’s vision, and in that momentary distraction he saw sets of white wings come flying in. He crouched down and held up his sword, preparing for an attack. None came. The angels swooped down and yanked his opponents into the air without ever slowing. Thulos sheathed his sword, frowning. Other than wounding the burly warrior, he was yet to score a solid blow, and even he might survive. Only Mira remained, still limp upon the ground.

“They flee!” he shouted to his troops. “Kill the slow! Kill the weak! Let blood rain upon the city, and our victory grow ever greater!”

An angel landed beside Mira, blood seeping from a wound above his right eye. He glanced at Thulos and tensed, waiting for the war-god to lash out and kill him.

“Go,” Thulos said. “She has a message to deliver.”

The angel took Mira into his arms, spread his wings, and fled. Thulos rubbed his neck, disappointment creeping through him. He held little doubt he had faced the greatest heroes this world had to offer, and all they could do was singe his neck and batter his armor. He consoled himself with the fact that the last of his brothers were here, and with their deaths, he could once again ascend to the heavens, reclaiming the power and glory that were his right.