Then Thulos arrived. An enormous pair of crimson wings stretched from slots in the armor on his back, and he cut angels down left and right, tumbling their severed bodies to the battle below. After he killed a score, the rest retreated into the city in a stream of feathers and gold armor. The demons carrying the three closed in, and on one of the many landing platforms set them down.
“Stay with me,” Velixar said to the two. Shadows sparked off his fingertips, as if unable to contain the killing magic he so desperately wished to unleash. “Aid me in killing the angels, Qurrah. Let us put your strength to good use.”
Tarlak stood between the paladins, watching the army approach. They were but a thousand, a thin line to catch the brunt of Thulos’s strength. All around the men stood with grim faces and naked blades.
“I can slow and disrupt the charge,” Tarlak said. “Once they’re here, just keep me alive and my spells will tear them to pieces. Oh, and don’t die yourselves, all right?”
“We’ll try our best,” Jerico said. He saluted the wizard. “But try to keep us alive as well. It only seems fair.”
“What, I have to kill great hordes of attackers and babysit you two? Now you’re asking too much.”
Lathaar started chuckling, but not at Tarlak’s joke. When he couldn’t stop, Jerico asked him what was so humorous.
“Don’t you see?” he said, pointing to the coming throng.
“See what?” asked Jerico.
“His army. Nearly half of it is undead.”
“More undead?” Jerico’s face spread into a wicked grin. “Is that so?”
They lumbered closer, poorly armed and armored, and only a few hundred yards away.
“Personally, I’m sick of killing undead,” Tarlak said, fire bursting around his hands. “But you two have the time of your lives.”
He hurled balls of fire, which soared across the distance and detonated, roasting tens at a time. He followed up with a pair of boulders he ripped out of the ground behind him, sending them crashing through the ranks. All around, the soldiers saw Tarlak’s display and cheered.
“Getting close,” Jerico said.
“I know,” Lathaar said.
He sheathed his shortsword and held his longsword with both hands. With his eyes closed, Lathaar prayed to Ashhur, hoping his faith was not lost. He still felt doubt clawing at him, but in this he felt certain. In this, he knew his place.
“Elholad,” he whispered.
His sword turned to a blade of purest light, the white rolling off it in thin waves like frost off a pond in the morning. Lathaar let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and then looked to the charging undead.
“Don’t let them pass!” he cried to his allies, his voice carrying to the thousand. “Do not retreat a step. They are dead. They are mindless. We are the living. We are the strong. Slay them, men of Dezrel! Show the gods your strength!”
Tarlak punctuated his sentence with a bolt of lightning, the boom rolling over them matched only by the roar of the undead crashing into the line. And hold they did, slamming their shields and stabbing their swords as the undead fell, and fell, until they formed a barrier for their own.
Clamoring over the pile of dead, they lunged at the defenders, clawing and biting at their armor. In the very center, Lathaar and Jerico fought like the paragons they were. Lathaar’s sword sliced through the throng while Jerico’s shield exploded their bodies into bones and dust with every slam. Tarlak did his best to aid the rest, hurling bolts of lightning up and down the lines.
Hundreds died, but as the wall before them grew, Thulos lost far more.
“No fear!” Lathaar cried, and his words carried the blessing of Ashhur. “Feel no fear, no sorrow, no pain!”
The line, which had begun to weaken, suddenly surged forward, cutting down the undead. Blood soaked their armor, and rot coated their blades. The ground rumbled as Tarlak summoned a few more boulders, rolling them just behind the pile of dead to crush hundreds, giving them a moment’s breather before the rest hit. The assault continued relentless, but they gained no ground. A thousand fell, their bodies robbed of the false life given to them by Velixar.
But a thousand more pressed on.
Jerico let out a cry to Ashhur and shoved his shield forward. Light burst from its surface. The nearest undead collapsed, unable to endure, while hundreds more in all directions stumbled as if suddenly robbed of sight. Lances of ice plowed through their ranks, and the defenders surged forward yet again, cutting them down.
“We’ve got them!” Tarlak shouted, leaning over as he caught his breath. The undead were scattered and few, easy prey for the defenders. A quick estimate showed they still had seven hundred standing against Thulos’s men…all four thousand of them.
“Well,” Jerico said as the first wave approached. “At least we built a wall.”
Tarlak laughed and cracked his knuckles.
“Time for another…”
He stopped as a great roar echoed through the valley, so powerful that even Thulos’s conscripts halted.
“What the abyss was that?” he asked, and then he turned and saw it.
The creature soared out of Mordeina, black smoke billowing after. It flew a single circle above Antonil’s troops, then plummeted, scattering men like they were playthings.
“That’s not good,” Lathaar said, and Tarlak couldn’t contain his laughter at the greatest understatement he’d heard in years.
“No,” he said, turning his attention back to the conscripts resuming their charge, hesitant as if they also were afraid of the great beast slaughtering men by the hundreds. “No, I think I can safely say we’re all fucked.”
Bernard left for the castle, and Deathmask and Veliana moved for the wall. But instead of going straight for it, Deathmask veered them back to the castle and found a large mansion with a gently sloping roof.
“Why are we here?” Veliana asked as Deathmask looked for a way to climb up.
“I’m tired of being hunted,” he said, grabbing a windowsill and pulling. “Now help me before I embarrass myself.”
She boosted his foot so he could plant it on the sill, then grab a hold of the roof and climb up. Veliana used a similar maneuver, though she needed no help, and her lithe body landed atop the roof with a soft thud.
“Show off,” Deathmask said, winking.
“What is it we’re waiting for?” she asked. “Can’t you see? The battle is about to start!”
She pointed to where the demons flew toward Avlimar in diamond formations. Deathmask ignored her, for he kept his gaze to the castle.
“Just wait,” he said.
“For what?”
He glared at her through the gray mask. “I said wait.”
Minutes crawled. With her arms crossed, Veliana watched the battle in the sky vanish into the interior of Avlimar. Deathmask knew she wondered why they hadn’t made for the wall like Bernard asked them, but then Rakkar announced its presence with a great roar that shook the city. It tore into the sky, breathing fire and spreading smoke with each beat of its wings. It sailed right over them, the passing of its shadow chilling both to the bone.
“Go,” Deathmask said, suddenly urging Veliana toward the castle. “Help Bernard, and quickly!”
“What? But he asked…”
“I don’t care what he asked!” Deathmask shouted, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close. “He is a fool if he thinks the two of us can get that army inside. This city lives or dies by Melorak’s hand. Go, while the dragon is gone!”
She pulled her wrist free and glared.
“And you? What will you do?”
Deathmask pointed far down the street, where Haern ran along the rooftops toward them.
“There’s a reason we’re up here,” he said, grinning. “Like I said, I’m tired of being the hunted. Go. Kill the priest-king, and I’ll deal with our stalker.”
She kissed her palm and then blew it to him.
“You better live, you bastard,” she said
before leaping off the roof.
Deathmask cracked his neck and looked to Haern.
“Planned on it,” he said as the assassin landed before him, his sabers drawn. He leered up at him with his dead eyes. Deathmask saw a hint of recognition in them and wondered just how loose Melorak’s control had grown. With both the dragon and the assassin to dominate, he had to be stretched thin. Perhaps that would gain him an advantage. Or perhaps it would let more of Haern’s skill return, and he’d die in seconds. Only one way to find out.
“An age ago, you and I dominated an entire city,” he said as Haern remained crouched and ready to lunge. He kept a spell ready, the single word of power eager on his lips. “It is such a disgrace to see you like this. Let me end it, Watcher. Let me send you to the grave, free from the priest-king’s taint.”
Still Haern remained, watching, waiting. Deathmask gave him no sign of attack. He would not be goaded into making the first move.
“Can you even understand me?” he asked. “Or is your brain rotted and worthless, your soul just a mindless ghost following orders…”
In the distance, Rakkar roared, and Haern lunged with it, his movements a sudden blur. Deathmask cast his spell. Fire burst in a circle around him, soaring twenty feet high in a great circular pillar. Haern twisted to the side, pulling back from his killing lunge. He was just a half-seen shadow but Deathmask tracked him best he could and then guessed at a landing. When the fire lowered, he slammed his hands together. The pillar exploded anew, this time further down the roof. Haern twisted, landing on one hand and then remaining like that as the fire surrounded him.
“I’ve got you,” Deathmask said, grinning.
Haern suddenly vanished and reappeared several feet to his right, still standing on his hand.
Neat trick, he thought as the assassin dove underneath his barrage of shadow bolts. He jumped and rolled in a circle, constantly seeking his back. Deathmask kept spinning, flinging shadow and conjuring fire in a desperate offense. The second he relented, and Haern closed the gap, he knew he was dead. He kept a ring of fire about him, ready to erupt in a moment’s notice. Once he thought Haern ready to stab, but it was just a feint, and he wasted yet another bit of his concentration ripping the fire into a wall to protect himself.
In the light of the flame, he lost sight of Haern. Knowing he had erred, and badly, he crouched down and activated one last spell. Bat wings stretched from his back, and he lifted into the air, hoping to put as much distance between them as he could. A blade slashed his leg as Haern lunged, and he screamed as the blood ran down. He flapped the ethereal wings harder. Haern twisted as he fell, hit the roof, and then leaped as if gravity were a nuisance he could ignore at will. Stunned, Deathmask flung several orbs of fire, all missing. Haern slammed into him, cutting and slicing. They fell, a jumbled collection of wings, cloaks, and swords.
Deathmask landed atop of Haern, and he dismissed the wings. Pain flared up and down his chest, and he knew he had a dozen cuts. One of Haern’s sabers lay far to the side, a wonderful blessing if he’d ever seen one. Deathmask clutched the wrist that held the other, and it took all his strength to keep it pressed against the rooftop. With his free hand he reached for Haern’s face, fire swarming about his skin. Haern grabbed his wrist and held on, keeping back the deadly flame.
“Just a little fire,” Deathmask said, gritting his teeth and flinging all the force of his weight down on his arm. Still Haern held back. The burning hand inched closer, closer. Haern’s eyes locked on his, and they stared, watching, struggling. The hand lowered once more. And then it rose. His strength was not enough. Deathmask felt horror rise in his throat as the assassin began lifting him off.
“Don’t you do this,” Deathmask shouted. “Goddamn it, remember who you are! Remember who you serve!”
The muscles in his neck stretched, and he pushed down with all his might. If he could just touch Haern with his hand, just once, for only a moment…
“Delysia…” Haern suddenly whispered. The hand wavered. As they stared, Deathmask watched recognition slowly bloom in his eyes. The hand lowered. And lowered. And then, with one sudden tug, Haern flung Deathmask’s hand against his cold dead face. As the fire burned, he smiled.
“Rest well,” Deathmask said as the decaying body burst into flame, the gray robes and cloaks billowing smoke as they were consumed. He stepped back, tightened the cloth about his face, and looked to the wall. The archers atop fired volley after volley, and still he heard Rakkar roar. He might not be able to open the gates, but perhaps he could still help. He scooped a bit of the ash of Haern’s corpse, flung it, and set it into motion about his face. With the mask complete, he climbed down to the street.
It was time the Ghost ignited the fires of rebellion.
Bernard knelt in prayer, hidden in a small alcove between two homes. If he’d looked up and opened his eyes, he would have seen the row of guards standing at the top of the steps guarding the castle doors. But he didn’t, not for several minutes more. At last, when he felt any more delay would be cowardice only, he stood and approached. The guards drew their swords, but they were only four.
“Let me pass, and no harm will come to you,” he said.
“Get lost,” said one.
“Wait, I recognize those robes,” said another. “He’s a priest. Arrest him!”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” said Bernard.
When the first reached for his arm, Bernard turned his palm toward the soldier’s face and spoke a word of power. Blinding light burst outward, and the man screamed and stumbled back. His foot slipped on the stairs, and then he rolled down them, landing hard on the street below. The second guard swung his sword, but the priest stepped back and clapped his hands. Two orbs of light flared into existence as his hands opened, then shot directly into his attacker’s chest. The guard collapsed, his limbs shaking wildly.
The other two rushed at once, trying to close the distance. Bernard wore no armor, and wielded no blade to defend himself. It didn’t matter. He blinded one, then made a slashing motion with his hand. A golden blade shimmered in the air, appearing just long enough to cut him down before fading away. Another slash with his hand, and the final guard toppled, blind and bleeding from a gash across his throat.
“A bad idea,” the priest muttered, pulling open the castle doors and stepping inside.
He gasped at the sight within. Men and women hung from hooks along the walls, like slabs of meat at a butcher’s hall. They stared with naked eyes, their lids sliced off. At his entrance they writhed against the hooks and reached out, moaning in warning. A shiver of fear ran through him, quickly replaced by anger.
“Such disrespect toward life,” he said, taking a step toward the nearest. “You sad, wretched thing. Rest now. Death comes for you with its sweet respite.”
His hand glowed a soft white, and then the corpse turned to dust, the dark magic within it unable to withstand such power. He looked to the others, spreading his arms toward each side of the hall.
“Be gone!” he cried, washing the grand entrance with his faith. The undead shook as if in great pain, and then went still. One by one they fell to the floor, their flesh now dust and their bones broken clay. A foreboding silence replaced their wails, and through the dust Bernard strode down the hall toward the throne room.
Even through the stone walls, he heard Rakkar’s roar signaling its departure for the battlefield. Bernard offered a quick prayer for those who would face its wrath, then continued on. It was Rakkar that he had come to stop. Melorak was its ruler, its link to the world. It was time to end the priest-king and save Mordeina from his madness.
The throne room was equally defiled by the dead, and he spent a moment to give them the peace they’d been denied. He’d expected Melorak to be there, but was not. Closing his eyes, he let his magical senses wander. He was less attuned than any wizard or necromancer, but in matters of faith, his sense was strong, though it didn’t matter. Melorak pulsed like a giant heart of darkness. It was like
searching for a mountain with the eyes of a hawk.
He passed down the stone hallways, turning every now and then should he wander too far. He kept his hands at his sides, glowing with the light of Ashhur. His fingertips brushed the undead along the walls, turning them to dust and silencing their groans. At last he stepped into what had once been a garden, before Karak had had his way with it. Ugly runes covered the dead grass, carved with blood. The few trees were barren, their branches shriveled into themselves. In the center, amid torn earth, stood Melorak.
“I’ve wondered when I would meet you again,” he said, slowly opening his eyes. They had a distant look to them, as if he were half-asleep. He smiled, his lone good eye smoldering red. “Perhaps you don’t remember me, but I remember you. For twenty years you resisted the inevitable, protecting your pathetic temple to Ashhur while my faithful conquered the hearts and minds of the people.”
“What was your name?” Bernard asked. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and he felt a wave of anxiety sweep over him. There, in that blasted clearing, he seemed so far away from Ashhur.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Melorak. “For I have a new name, one given to me by the true god of this world. I am the heir to Velixar, the right fang of the Lion. Can you hear its roar? Even now, my beautiful creation slaughters the last remnants that still swear their faith to Ashhur.”
Bernard forced himself to calm. Ashhur hadn’t gone anywhere. His faith was strong. It was only the foul sensation, the total culmination of a thousand prayers to Karak, gathered there in that clearing to take physical form in the beast, Rakkar. He still felt its echo, its taint. Light swirled around his hands as Melorak laughed.
“You cannot challenge me,” he said. “You are nothing. Did you see the demons give chase to your angels? Even Avlimar is not safe. Karak will soon walk free. If you leave now, I will let you live to see his glorious return. Perhaps when you look upon his beautiful face you will throw yourself down and beg forgiveness for a lifetime of transgressions.”
A Sliver of Redemption (Half-Orcs Book 5) Page 33
