“What a shameful display,” Deathmask said, reclining in a chair, his feet propped up on several pillows. “The lords and ladies of these lands lick Melorak’s boots like he’s a demigod. Any other usurper would have been beaten down by now. Where are the armies of Ker? Where are the troops of the northlands? The many guards at the wall of towers? Surely the homeland is far more important than keeping out a few emaciated orcs and goblins.”
“The guards will not desert their post,” Veliana said, “not even with all of Mordan in ruin. They will protect their land, their lives, and their posts, until they receive orders to the contrary. Such is the duty of all soldiers.”
“Stupid,” Deathmask said. “Who cares if you hold an inch of foreign soil if you lose your own damn throne?”
“They wait for orders,” Veliana said. “Orders you know aren’t coming. They’re being told the priest-king Melorak is new ruler over Mordan, and that all the lords have sworn fealty. It’s no lie. We’ve watched them come and go, wine on their tongues and cowardice in their hearts.”
“Where the Abyss is Antonil?” Deathmask muttered. “He’s still king, or at least he was if he’s still alive. How many troops would become turncoats the second a true king, not some Karak-worshipping puppet, appeared and demanded his sovereign right?”
“Unless you plan on having Antonil magically appear—” she stopped mid-sentence. “Deathmask, do you feel that?”
“I do,” Deathmask said, bolting to his feet and pulling on his boots. “Some undead abomination. It appears Melorak has brought Karak’s magic against us.”
They glanced around, scanning the window and the door, guessing where the undead creature might enter.
“This isn’t right,” Deathmask said. “I feel a stronger sense than normal. Veliana, it is no mindless drone!”
Veliana had drifted over to the window to peer outside and scan the streets. At Deathmask’s call she jerked back, and with no time to spare. Twin sabers stabbed the air where she had been. Before she could react further, Haern swung in, his legs slamming her in the face and chest. With a small moan she fell back, breathless and dazed.
“Be still, puppet,” Deathmask commanded, magical weight to his words. He could command undead as well as any priest of Karak, or so he thought. The attacker swayed, and it seemed like his motions took on a heavy, sluggish air, but still he pressed on, his sabers dazzling in the light.
“Shit,” Deathmask said.
A bolt of black magic shot from his hand, connecting with Haern’s chest in a solid hit that knocked him back several feet. The Watcher’s hood fell back, and both members of the Ash guild felt their hearts plummet at the sight.
Haern, his eyes bloodshot and wild, snarled at them, his pale skin marked with rot. His once golden hair was matted and dull. In the center of his chest remained Dieredon’s arrow, which had spared him torture at Melorak’s hands when the city fell.
“Shit,” Deathmask repeated.
Haern lunged again, but Veliana had recovered from the blow. Purple fire swarmed around her daggers as she batted away slash after slash. Haern towered over her, his feet dancing as Veliana swung her legs about, always failing to land a trip or kick. She remained completely defensive, her daggers a violet blur as they parried and cut.
A loud boom sent Haern retreating, even before the crimson fire erupted throughout the air where he had been. Veliana crossed her arms over her head to block out the heat and light. The fire rolled outward, never rising or falling, only staying in a rapidly expanding oval. A quick hiss of air, and then it slammed throughout the room, rolling across Deathmask without causing harm. The rest of the home, however, burst in flame, the walls charred black, and the curtains blowing out the window in fluttering ash.
Haern twirled, hooked a hand on the windowsill, and then hurled himself onto the roof as the fire exploded. As air sucked back in through the window, Haern came with it, charging headlong with his sabers at the ready. He went for Deathmask this time, leaping over the startled and prone Veliana.
“Hold!” Deathmask shouted, trying again to overpower whatever orders had been given to the undead assassin. Haern faltered in his steps, but still continued. That falter, however, was all Deathmask was hoping for. Silver chains appeared out of thin air, latching onto Haern’s wrists and ankles. With a crumple of cloaks he hit the ground, rolling to avoid a second ball of fire that roasted the ground where he fell.
The clasps were magical, and much of their strength lay in the mental image of steel and the sensation of cold, hard metal. But Haern cared not for either, and even if they had been real he would have struggled until his wrists broke and his rotting flesh tore. With his mouth screaming silently, he tore his hands free and slashed at the manacles on his feet. Unharmed, Haern glared at Deathmask, who was mere feet away.
Veliana’s daggers buried into Haern’s back, their purple flame searing flesh and gray cloak. Haern rolled with the blow, showing no sign of pain. He tossed Veliana to the side, one hand lashing out to cut Deathmask’s throat, the other hurling his saber.
The sorcerer had one trick left up his sleeve. As Haern’s blade struck his throat it passed right through, for Deathmask’s flesh had turned to shadow. When his flesh returned to normal, he reached out, his hand grasping Haern’s face. With every shred of power he forced a command into the undead man, keeping it as simple and primal as he could make it.
“RUN!” he shouted. Haern’s entire body shook, and his eyes flared wide. When Deathmask let go, Haern turned and sprinted out the window, his long cloaks fluttering behind him in the wind. Exhausted, Deathmask crumpled to his knees and watched the assassin go.
“Please,” Veliana said, laying on the ground to his right. “Deathmask…”
He glanced over, never realizing Haern had thrown his saber. Veliana was on her back, Haern’s saber embedded deep in her chest.
“Vel,” Deathmask gasped, crawling toward her. His hands passed over her wound, trying to assess it.
“Anything vital?” he asked, his hands closing around the hilt.
“No,” she murmured, clutching his hands to keep him from pulling. “Please, it hurts, please.”
He knew what she wanted. He couldn’t bear to give it.
“You’ll pull through,” he told her.
“Haern’ll be back,” she said. “You only delayed him for a moment. Run, you damn fool, run!”
Deathmask felt his hands shaking. His mismatched eyes blurred, but no tears fell, so strong was his will.
“He’ll pay,” he said. “I will make Melorak suffer such pain he will beg for Karak’s tender touch.”
“Enough,” Veliana said.
Deathmask pulled off his mask and kissed her lips. She kissed back, holding in a cough as she did. When the kiss ended, Deathmask slipped his fingers down to her heart. A single whisper and he stopped its movements. Her lungs went still. Her blood froze.
He stood and put on his mask. He reached into his bag and threw ash into the air so that it swirled about his face, locked into orbit.
He left.
When Haern returned moments later, he found Deathmask gone and Veliana still on the floor. A stone-cold look on his face, he yanked free his blade, sliced out Veliana’s throat to be sure, and then left through the door, half his mission accomplished, the other half soon to follow.
9
King Bram Henley rode his horse into the center of the village, his keen edged sword held high. The lesser folk parted for their lord and his accompaniment of knights. A great fire waited to be kindled, and in the center of the wood stood three men tied to an upright log, their bodies stripped naked and bleeding from many thin wounds.
Bram slowed his horse as the last made way, revealing two priests dressed in the black robes of the roaring lion. They nodded their heads to their lord, but did not bow, which would have irritated him even if he hadn’t already been furious.
“What travesty occurs in my realm?” he asked. His voice thundered through the cl
earing. He was an imposing man, with broad shoulders, long black hair, and a stern face marred by a single scar from eye to chin, self-cut in the tradition of his father’s line. His naked blade revealed just how deep his fury went. He pointed it at the nearest priest, demanding an explanation.
“These men have defied the will of Karak,” said the first. Bram recognized him as a high-ranking priest of Ker, a chubby man named Gill. His words dripped like honey but his fingers smelled of blood.
“And how have they done so?” Bram asked.
Gill puffed out his chest and gestured to the crowd, and it was to them he answered. The exaggerated movements of his arms rang bells attached to the bottom of his robes.
“We have but one lord in all of Dezrel, and he is Melorak, the lion of Karak, the voice of his thunder, the interpreter of his mighty roar. Who here would doubt Karak’s power, or must his armies march through our nation once more?”
Bram’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his tongue. Let the priest have his speech, so long as he got around to his point. So far, the crowd was going along, but he sensed they did so not out of faith, but out of a desire to see the fire burn.
“These men would not swear oaths to Karak,” Gill continued, his voice shrieking into a higher pitch. “They would swindle the good, meek people of this village, and then deny their god, spit in his face, and exalt a man above all. Who here could question their guilt, or their punishment?”
The priest beside him shouted, “Praise be to Karak!” and a dozen or so onlookers joined in. Bram urged his horse closer to the pyre and nodded to the centermost man, who did not seem afraid, only royally pissed.
“Is what he says true?” Bram asked.
“We’re tax collectors, milord,” the man said. “And that viper demanded a tithe. I told him we could not, for the money was not ours to give, but yours, and not even a priest steals money from his lord.”
“Who is lord but our great lord, Karak?” Gill shouted. Bram turned on him.
“You would steal from my treasury, then murder those who would stop your thievery?” he asked. Gill’s eyes widened in exaggerated shock.
“I am a servant of our great god, and am most humble to be in his service,” he said. “You dare insult me, even you, King Bram, knowing that an insult to a high priest is an insult to Karak himself?”
Bram glanced about. The crowd was eating up every word, though many looked nervous at the implied threat.
Damn sheep, thought Bram.
“Perhaps these men did offer insult,” Bram said. “But I know of no laws that decree death to those who might affront Karak. We are a free people, and have been ever since the brothers’ war.”
“There is a new law!” Gill shouted. “A law elevating the common man to equality among kings. A law of gods, a law of Karak, and let true justice cover Dezrel in its righteous fury!”
The crowd cheered. As they did, Gill spoke softer, so that only Bram could hear.
“Our judgment sweeps across this land,” he said. “You would be wise to recognize and obey.”
Bram sheathed his sword and nodded for his knights to leave.
“I have a message for your god,” he said as he spun his horse about, and village men tossed torches onto the dry hay that surrounded the pyre. “Tell him that you, Gilliam Frey, are responsible for King Henley finally seeing the truth of Karak.”
Gill beamed.
“Praise be to Karak,” he shouted as Bram rode into the distance.
“Ride hard,” Bram said to Sir Ian Millar, his most trusted warrior. “We must reach Angkar before dusk.”
“What of the priests?” the knight asked as he kicked his mount’s sides.
“To the Abyss with them,” Bram said, hurling a curse to the wind as they rode across the yellow grass.
“Wake Loreina,” Bram said as he stormed through the door of his tower. “Bring her to the Eye. Oh, and Ian…be quiet about it.”
The knight struck his chest with his fist and bowed.
“Everywhere the Lion has ears,” the king muttered as he stripped off his riding gear. His room was poorly furnished, another relic of his family’s many odd traditions. The rest of the castle was gilded, polished, and overflowing with pretensions of wealth. But there in his tower, his room, he had a bed, a chest, and a mirror, all made of plain wood and glass. He paced the room, trying to calm down but knowing he wouldn’t. Too many were wresting control of his kingdom away from him. Four generations his family had reigned. He had no intentions of being the last Henley. Soon Loreina and Ian would be at the Eye, and he took several deep breaths to slow his heart and calm his nerves.
Bram kept his sword buckled to his waist. The world had grown dangerous as of late, and now he found himself on the side of the apparent loser of the spiritual war sweeping across Dezrel. What if some mad priest tried to gain the favor of his god by coming after him?
“Everywhere,” said the king, opening the door. “Goddamn everywhere.”
The castle had three main towers built into the corners of its walls. One was the king’s, another was housing for knights, and the third was the Eye. Its door was painted a deep red, and just above the door, ten skulls carved of stone leered down at any who might enter. He paused and looked up at them. They were relics of an older time, to give mystery and wonder to the tower and the proceedings within. How long until he’d be forced to carve the skulls into lions?
Bram shoved open the door and hurried inside. Immediately before him was a set of stairs, looping up and around to the only true floor of the tower: the Eye.
Inside the eye, paintings of men fighting angels, demons, trolls, orcs, and other types of monsters the artists’ imaginations could conceive covered every bit of the walls. Torches burned throughout, casting strange shadows across the images. In the center, older than any living man, was a seven-legged table. Carved in perfect detail atop it was the world of Dezrel.
“We wait as you commanded,” said Ian.
Bram was pleased to see he also still carried his sword.
“He might,” said Loreina, walking around the table so she could kiss him. “I waited because I worry for you. Silly of you to think I’d sleep before your return.”
Bram wrapped an arm around her waist and smiled down at her. She was a slender thing, her brown hair braided and falling down to her waist. Though her face dimpled when she smiled, her eyes remained hard, attentive.
“You know more than I what the rumors say,” Bram said, taking a seat before the giant map. “So help Ian and me make sense of everything we are hearing.”
“Not much puzzlement from the north,” Ian said, crossing his arms and nodding toward Mordan. “Everything on the other side of the Corinth River is pledged to their new priest-king, Melorak. So far we’ve been lucky he hasn’t sent a permanent envoy to keep an eye on us.”
Loreina sat beside her husband, her hand in his.
“Their priests are doing a fine enough job on their own,” she said. “I’ve watched them, listened to their whispers as they scurry about the castle. More and more they press for people to repent and confess their sins.”
“We can’t ban them,” said Bram. His eyes lingered on Mordan as if he were looking for some hidden truth painted on the wood. “The moment we do, this priest-king will send an army to enforce his rule.”
“Does he even have an army to send?” Loreina asked.
“Of course he does,” Ian said, frowning. “He can’t have taken Mordeina without one.”
Bram crossed his arms and thought.
“It isn’t as simple a question as it seems. With King Antonil marching east to retake Neldar, defenses must have been few. Whatever troops he has might be needed to quell rebellion and ensure the rest of Mordan’s nobles swear their loyalty to him.”
“They say he has an army of the dead,” Loreina said. She shivered. “I don’t like it. I hear the priests’ whispers. This Melorak will come after us. Karak’s pets are far too convinced of their ascension.”
“While you were gone, one of them came to me with another request for confession,” she told the two men. “He said the same thing: that a new law is coming over this world, and that it would be dangerous for me to have sin in my heart.”
Bram stood and flung his chair to the wall.
“Dangerous? Dangerous! I’ll cut his heart out and show him just how bloody it is with sin. What was his name?”
“I don’t remember,” Loreina said.
“You lie. Who was it?”
“I said I don’t remember.”
Ian coughed from the opposite side of the table.
“An execution would only reveal our true feelings toward them,” he said. “I don’t think it’d be wise to give away our hand just yet.”
The redness slowly faded from Bram’s face, and he grabbed another chair so he could sit.
“Enough of them,” he said, feeling childish beneath his wife’s constant stare. “What of the east?”
“We’ve received hardly a word through any official means,” said Ian. “The latest I’ve heard is that Theo White has assumed the throne in Kinamn, not that there was much to assume. The whole nation of Omn is said to be a wasteland. Those...demons…pillaged everything on their trek west. From what I’ve heard, at least half the nation is struggling to hold off starvation. Only those south along the coast have escaped relatively unscathed.”
“Theo is a bitter man,” Loreina said. “I’ve taken one of his former servant girls into my custody. She fled here when the demons first attacked, before Theo became king. He talks as if the sun will set tomorrow and never rise. With such thinking, he is unpredictable and dangerous.”
“Where do his allegiances lie?” asked Bram. “They would normally be to Neldar, but with it in ruins, it seems he’s free of any old ties.”
“I’d say his allegiances will be only to Omn and himself,” said Ian. Loreina nodded in agreement.
A Sliver of Redemption (Half-Orcs Book 5) Page 10
