She’d been terrified he would try to take her, although she was not sure how that would work, or if it could. She remembered that moment in the tower, and decided she did not want to know. She wrapped her blankets tighter and thought of Qurrah. She had called him master before, but she’d known he loved her, would do anything for her. In caring hands such as those, she could freely offer her body and soul, and do all that those loving hands demanded. But Velixar?
She shivered. He would have taken her, then and there, while Thulos's army watched. There was a time she might have been able to resist, but stripped of her power, she felt helpless, worthless, a pathetic girl sobbing in a dark tent. The lunacy in Velixar's eyes terrified her. Normally he was detached from his emotions, a calm puppet-master moving the strings as he desired. No longer. The world was ending, and his safeguards were crumbling. The man wanted victory, and all its fruits.
“I'm sorry, Qurrah,” she whispered. Part of her cried out in pain against such an apology, declaring him undeserving. She ignored it. She didn't need that hurt anymore. At first, she had planned to go along with Velixar's game. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time she'd played along with a man who thought himself tougher, stronger. But no, this was different. Every shred of her soul had shrieked against those eyes as they had stared into her, ordering her to kneel. Yet she had anyway.
“What's happening to me, Qurrah?” she asked, feeling comforted by his imagined presence. That presence she could talk to, be herself without fear. Just like it had been when they were together. Before Aullienna. Before Velixar. Before Karak had smashed his fist into their lives and destroyed everything.
Aullienna. And her stillborn daughter, Teralyn. Gone. Gone.
Her rage exploded. She felt nothing but loathing and contempt for the miserable sack of bones. Velixar had killed those she loved, and never could she forget the blasphemy that had stirred within the small buried bag. Teralyn, brought back in a horrid state of undeath, the pathetic offering of a death god incapable of creating life.
She stared at the tent flap, pretending Qurrah sat on the other side, listening. In fact, she could almost see his shadow, his form hunched with his chin resting on his knuckles, hanging on every word.
“Your sorrow was as great as my rage,” she whispered, her entire body shaking. “Wasn't it, my love?”
The shadow paused, then slowly nodded. Tears ran down her face.
“I understand,” she said, clutching the blankets to her chest and burying her face. Even his pale shadow was suddenly too much. She drowned her sobs with her pillows as fleeting touches of Qurrah washed over her. His guilt. His shame. His sorrow. They had crushed him, and she had never known. She had always offered herself and expected it to be enough. But what was she to Teralyn? What was she to the years he spent with his brother? She was but a tourniquet halting the bleeding. She was no healing salve.
She looked back up at the shadow, saw its own hunched form convulsing with sobs.
“What was it they offered you?” she asked. “What was it your brother gave you that I could not?”
She didn't know, but she wanted to. So desperately she wanted to know what had saved her beloved Qurrah, for broken, alone, and miserable, she would gladly take the tiniest sliver of that same redemption.
The shadow stood. Its hand reached out, pushing against the tent flap. She crawled nearer on her hands and knees. Gently, she put her hand against the tent. It was cold and rough, but for the briefest moment, she sensed warmth. The shadow vanished. Exhausted, she returned to her blankets and wrapped herself within them, but before she did, she yanked the gold lace from her hair and tossed it to the ground. With that small bit of peace, she closed her eyes and slept.
Hundreds of miles away, Qurrah knelt inside his tent, his hand pressed against the flap. Tears soaked his face and neck.
“Tessanna,” he whispered.
5
I t seemed bizarre to him, but the night was no longer safe for Deathmask. Back in the chaotic city of Veldaren, he had been a master among assassins, feared for his ability to outwit, out-stealth, and outfight any challengers to his guild's revered position. But in Karak's newly conquered city of Mordeina, it was the daylight he wrapped himself in.
Veliana sat beside him as the two peered out the small second story window. Her short red hair fell past her face, hiding the long scar that had taken her right eye. The home's occupants lay unconscious on the far side of the room, no worse for wear other than the large bumps growing on the back of their heads.
“Karak’s dogs will catch on eventually,” Veliana said, twirling a dagger in her hand, her dexterous fingers handling it with ease. “And even if they don't, we're shaving a cow with a cat claw.”
Deathmask pulled a gray cloth over his face and tied a stiff knot behind his head. The only features remaining visible were his mismatched eyes, one black, one red, and his long dark hair falling far past his shoulders. They both wore dark gray cloaks, once a symbol for their guild. But that was then, before the fall of Veldaren, before Karak's conquering of Mordeina. Now they had each other, and no one else.
“We have to do something,” Deathmask said, dipping his hand into a small pouch tied at his waist. “There is no life for us here. No work. No honor. Let us die repaying those that took away everything.”
He scooped out a tiny bit of ash and sprinkled it over his face. The magic of the mask took hold, grabbing the ash and spreading it out like a hazy shield. He was a phantom, an ill omen, and he would have the priests and paladins of Karak fear his visage before they died.
“They travel in larger groups with each passing day,” Deathmask said as he resealed the pouch. “If we kill enough priests, their patrols will weaken. Perhaps then we can stir the revolt that is aching to erupt.”
“They always have the Lionsguard,” Veliana said. She nodded toward a group of seven men marching down the street. They wore the official armor of the Mordan guard, but instead of polished gold breastplates and red tunics, they wore the white skull of a lion over their gray steel. Within days of capture, all the armor pieces had been painstakingly stripped of their golden sheen, dulling them down, removing all traces of former glory and leadership.
Now there was only Melorak, puppet of the dark god.
“The Lionsguard were recruited from Mordeina,” Deathmask insisted. “Once they realize no one holds their chains, they should break free.”
“Are you so sure?” Veliana asked, glancing at him with a mischievous smile on her face.
“Mostly,” Deathmask said, grinning back.
“Leave one alive for me then,” she said, drawing her other dagger. “We'll see just how fanatical their faith is.”
The streets still bustled with plenty of activity. It was that general chaos they needed to carry out their attacks. They waited until they saw a patrol marching through the center of the street, four Lionsguard and two priests of Karak.
“Take out the guards,” Deathmask said, rubbing his hands together. “The priests are mine.”
“Do it fast,” Veliana said. She watched the patrol's approach, counted to five, then leapt into the air, a dagger in each hand. A man and his wife spotted her attack, but instead of calling warning they shouted curses to the patrol. Veliana grinned as she fell, thankful for the added distraction. Their heads turned toward the shouting couple, they were unprepared for the vicious woman that fell atop them, her daggers stabbing and her feet kicking. She slashed open one guard's throat, spun about, and buried her blades into the back of the second.
Before the priests could cast a spell, twin projectiles of fire flew from the window, each the size of a fist. They struck the priests and exploded, bathing their bodies in black flame. Their pain-filled screams filled the street. The two remaining guards swung with their swords, but they were poorly trained, no challenge for Veliana's masterful daggerwork. She kept shifting, keeping one guard in front of the other so they could not work as a team. When the first thrust with his sword,
she slipped aside, smacked the blade away with her dagger, and then rushed in. Her whole body slammed against the guard. Tip after tip of her dagger thrust through the creases in his armor. Blood poured from his neck, shoulders, and arms as he collapsed, his life bleeding out upon the ground.
She expected the last guard to flee, or call for help. Instead he rushed on, seemingly not caring if he died. Veliana felt her stomach knot as she danced about and kicked the back of his knees. As he tumbled down, another bolt of fire flew from the window. It burst around the guard's breastplate, charring flesh but not killing. Veliana rolled him over, stabbed her dagger deep into his shoulder, and then thrust her face to within inches of his.
“Whom do you serve?” she asked.
“I serve the lion,” he said. Blood stained his teeth, and his voice was strained.
“What of your people?” she asked, trusting Deathmask to warn her if reinforcements arrived.
“My people?” the Lionsguard asked. “Karak’s…followers. Those are my people.”
The girl's stomach tightened. Not the faintest hint of a lie in those eyes. Religious fanaticism had taken over. There was no man left in that armor. She sliced his throat and left him to die. Standing up, she noticed over a hundred people had gathered around, watching their brutal, efficient work. She tried to read them, but was unsure. Too many looks of fear, worry, and sorrow.
She ran to the other side of the street, away from Deathmask, and catapulted herself up to the rooftops. Soldiers were finally arriving, their weapons drawn and waving uselessly about the air. As she ran, the people shouted at them, and her lips curled into a smile at what she heard.
“The Ghost will get you,” they shouted. “Him and his Blade!”
So she was the Blade? That was a good nickname. She could settle for that.
Running her zigzag pattern, she went from roof to street to roof, to where ‘the Ghost’ waited.
T he discussion soured quickly, for each had reached the same conclusion.
“The Lionsguard are so fanatical they might as well be hypnotized,” Veliana said, yanking off her boots. She let out a little moan as she dipped her feet into a small kettle filled with water. With a brush of his fingers, Deathmask warmed the water and made it bubble.
“Such a meager use for my amazing talents,” he said, removing the cloth from his face and tucking it into a pocket of his robe.
“There could be no greater use for your talents than making me happy,” she said, her eyes closed. Glancing over her thin body with its tight, catlike muscles, Deathmask chuckled.
“Perhaps you're right,” he said.
“About what?” she asked, opening her good eye.
“The Lionsguard,” Deathmask said. “What else? But I watched that last guard attack you, even though all others were dead. Not the slightest hesitation. Hypnotization may not be far from the truth. Even trained soldiers will hesitate when they know their death is at hand.”
“What about a spell?” Veliana asked, closing her eye and settling deeper into her chair. They were inside what had become their home, a modest but well furnished abode that had most likely belonged to a general, or similarly high ranking soldier of Mordeina's army. To their knowledge, that army was still heading east, joined with troops of Neldar to try and retake Veldaren and close the portal through which hundreds of war demons had flooded into Dezrel.
“A spell?” Deathmask asked. “As in, a spell forcing them to worship Karak and serve as a perfect, obedient soldier? Seems a little much. Any time a city is conquered, there are always hundreds of rats willing to show up and grab a slice of power in the newly established order.”
“Rats run when faced with death,” Veliana said. “Something else is going on here. If we're to have any hope of freeing this city, Melorak needs to die. You know that.”
The man groaned and rubbed his eyes with his fingers.
“Yes,” he said. “I know. But you've seen him fight, as have I. He sent Dieredon running like a little girl, and he killed Haern the Watcher as if he were an ant. And don’t forget, he beat the two of us back with a single spell.”
“Then we don't fight him,” she said. “Not fair. That's not us. But he sleeps. He eats. He breathes.”
“Not according to his followers,” Deathmask muttered.
“He's human,” Veliana said, her voice growing hard. “And if he's human, he can be killed. We've always boasted we can kill any man alive. Are you ready to take that back now?”
Deathmask walked over to the window. It was dark now. The streets were empty but for the hundreds of patrols. Every day they killed members of the Lionsguard, as well as priests and the occasional dark paladin. Every night, it seemed twice that number joined the patrols. They were recruiting from the populace like mad, and not just soldiers. Priests as well. Paladins, too.
“Let's say you're right,” Deathmask said, turning to face her. “Now what?”
“We learn,” Veliana said, removing her belt and untucking her shirt. “We watch, we learn, and we wait. All men have weaknesses. We find his, and we use it.”
“So do you have an idea on how to do that?” Deathmask asked, enjoying the sight of her as she stretched.
“Now that you ask,” the girl said, smiling. “Yes, I do.”
“T his is insane,” Deathmask muttered, feeling naked without his gray cloth over his face. Nor did he have the hovering ash that inspired fear and dread in all who faced him. Instead he wore simple clothing of drab colors, the knees of his pants torn loose and the entire outfit intended for a much bigger man.
“Too late to turn back now,” Veliana said beside him.
The two were near the bottom of the large hill the castle was built upon. They walked with their arms linked, their shoulders hunched and their steps staggered as if each were relying on the other for balance.
“It is not too late,” Deathmask insisted. “No guards have spotted us, so don’t lie to keep me from thinking rationally.”
Veliana giggled, much louder than he anticipated or preferred. Her entire face and hair were covered with dirt. It was their best attempt to hide the long scar across her eye that might mark her as the vigilante Blade. She waved an arm wide, and sang a bad lyric about a peasant girl and a ruffian burglar who came upon her bathing. They had purposefully avoided patrols on their way to the many steps leading up to the castle, but no longer.
“Now it’s too late,” she giggled as guards approached. Deathmask counted twenty together in the pack and felt proud in knowing that he, ‘the Ghost’, was the main reason they travelled in such large numbers.
“Hey,” Deathmask said, slurring his words and tugging Veliana forward. “Hey you guys!”
The patrol surrounded them, the Lionsguard swarming with weapons drawn. Three priests were with them, watching the events from a few paces back.
“What is your business being out this late at night?” one of the priests asked.
“We want to join,” Veliana said, pointing a finger at one of the Lionsguard with a hand that just happened to contain a rather large and empty bottle. The guard yanked away the bottle, ignoring her whimper.
“Drunkards,” the priest said after a quick sniff of the bottle. “You should be well aware this is illegal.”
“Well, yeah,” Deathmask said. He let his eyes focus and unfocus on the priest, but kept his smile locked tight. “See, we thought if we were you, then it would be legal, you know?”
“We want to join!” Veliana said again, rubbing her fingers across a guard’s arm. “Be fun, right? Good money?”
She let her fingers slide from the guard’s armor to her own chest and then giggled naughtily at the look he gave her.
“Fun?” he asked.
“Arrest them,” the priest said. “No need to let such riffraff disturb our streets. A few days in a cell will teach them Karak’s opinion on such distasteful displays.”
Deathmask tensed while Veliana continued to flirt with the guard, completely oblivious to what t
he priest was saying. She sucked on one finger while hugging herself with her other arm. When the guards grabbed her, only then did she seem to react.
“Wait,” she said. “What did we do wrong?”
A mailed fist struck the back of her head, and down she went. Deathmask shouted curses freely as two men held his arms. Another fist struck him, but it took two more times before he slumped, a limp sack of bone and muscle, ready for delivery to the castle prison.
W hen Deathmask came to, he opened his eyes, looked left, looked right, and then very calmly said, “Fuck.”
Veliana was gone, which was already a deviation from their original plan. The two had expected to be placed together in a holding cell of some sort, where they could be kept under control while the imaginary alcohol in their system cleared out. The second problem, and the one that elicited the crude response, was that he was not in a cell at all. He was chained to a wall at the very entrance to the prison, in clear view of over eight guards. To his right were the barred double-doors leading up to the castle grounds. Across from him, tables of guards played cards and rolled dice. Along the wall behind them, rows and rows of clubs.
“I hear you,” came a voice to his left. Deathmask looked over to see an elderly man with graying hair and half his original teeth, his arms chained to the wall above his head. When he talked, his voice grumbled and cracked. “You think, just one drink, right? Just one, and then you wake up in here, and the question, you see, the question is, is your splitting skull from the drink or from where those damn guards smacked you?”
“Yeah,” Deathmask said. “Something like that.”
“Name’s Dunk,” the man said while Deathmask shifted and checked his shackles. Thick iron, and painfully tight. His wrists were crossed above his head, the chains hooked into the low ceiling. He sat on his knees, and when he tried to stand, he found another set of shackles holding him immobile.
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