Stay strong, she said in her mind. She wanted to project the thought to Lathaar but she dared not interrupt his concentration. Please, Lathaar, stay strong for me.
Lathaar knocked aside a dual thrust by the dark paladin, then stabbed with his short sword. Krieger leapt back, slammed his foot against the tree behind him, then kicked forward. The two collided in a flashing explosion, sparks covering both their bodies. A glowing blade tore another cut across the front of Krieger’s black armor. In return, a burning scimitar gashed the inner part of Lathaar’s arm. The blood sizzled atop their weapons.
Mira knew them evenly matched. Neither would dare turn their attention to her, or the knife-edge they fought upon would balance toward the other. If she was to escape, now was the time. Slowly she opened her mouth as wide as it could go. The spikes tore into the sides of her cheeks, but at least she could no longer feel the edges pressed into the roof of her mouth and the upper part of her jaw. She took a breath, and then another. The spell she had in mind would require no movements of her hands, just the verbal components. She doubted she could pronounce them with her swollen tongue, but she had to try.
“Kel.” The first part came easy, just a hard sound from the back of her throat. The tiny tilt of her tongue for the ‘el’ filled her mouth with pain.
“Lak.”
Again the ridges tore into her tongue, but she could manage. She took a deep breath. The next syllable…
Vral was what she meant to say, but when she closed her mouth the piece attached to the back of her tongue gagged her. The involuntary wretches reopened the many wounds in her mouth. She wanted to vomit but knew it would destroy what remained of her tongue. Blood poured down her lips and across her chest. The pain was horrible. With blurred vision, she watched the two paladins. They seemed like statues locked in battle and bathed in light and fire. The hair on her neck stood as she wondered if Ashhur and Karak were watching, channeling their power into their champions to fight their petty brothers’ feud.
Anger stirred in her breast. She would defy them. She would deny them their game, regardless of the cost.
“Kel,” she whispered.
S o how did this Jerico survive?” Krieger asked. They had fought for several minutes, and still his breathing had not turned heavy. “Did he cower in some hole as the rest of his brethren were slaughtered?”
“Cowering in holes never works,” Lathaar said. “That’s where your kind breeds.”
The dark paladin slashed twice with his main hand, then curved a thrust low with his other. Lathaar blocked the first two, then parried the third away with his short sword. Krieger snarled, closing the distance between them while jamming both his blades at Lathaar’s stomach.
“Have you forgotten where I first found you?” Krieger asked as their weapons clashed once more. “Cowering in a pathetic inn among beggars and drunkards and the lowliest of the low?”
“That just proves my point,” Lathaar said, shoving the dark paladin away.
“Your faith was nothing then,” Krieger said. “You think you can stand against me now?”
“My faith has been tested,” Lathaar said. “Has yours?”
“Trust me,” he answered, putting one foot forward while rearing back with his blades. “Seeing you alive tests me greatly.”
Krieger struck with all his strength, a mammoth blow of unholy power. Lathaar crossed his swords and met them, determined to prove his own faith. Thunder crackled between them as the blades connected. The clearing had turned dark, and in that twilight the glow of Lathaar’s swords fought against the sucking, greedy blackness of Krieger’s fire. Regular steel would have shattered, but neither possessed regular weapons. They bore the weapons of their gods. Flesh, bone, and will would break first. Each paladin fought on, determined that it would be the other that felt his earthly body fail.
M ira took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind. Four times she had tried, but an involuntary gag or a shaking of her swollen tongue ruined each incantation. Through blurry eyes she watched the paladins. They were nothing but their swords now to her, black and white, healing and hurting.
“Kel,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Lak. Vr…” The spike pressed against the back of her throat, tearing, but she had to ignore it. She forced the syllable out, no longer caring the damage that might result.
“Vral,” she said, feeling the magical power beginning to flow from her body. One more syllable. Just one. Blood trickled down the back of her throat, but she swallowed it. Too much hesitation and the magic would leave her. Now or never, she thought. Now or never.
“Den,” she gagged. Kellak Vralden. Shadow mist. Her flesh drained of all color, becoming a shifting form of gray smoke. The wire and rope surrounding her hands fell through her body, as did the awful contraption within her mouth. The metal plummeted down her throat and to the ground, a horrific sight of blood and torn skin. Attached to it was a small yellow gem that glowed bright in the growing darkness. Her body returned to flesh. Mira coughed and gagged, relieved beyond all description to have her mouth free of the device.
“Clever,” she said, recognizing the yellow gem for what it was. She immediately regretted speaking. Her tongue was still swollen and sore. All she could taste was blood. Her fingers were a swollen mess, but nothing compared to her mouth. Krieger had been far more worried about what spells she might cast verbally. He had assumed removing semantic components would be far easier with her bound by rope and wire. For the most part, he had been right. But now she was free…
She pulled the gem from the device and rolled it in her hands. Neither combatant knew her free, focused as they were on their fight. That would end.
“No more games,” she whispered. “No more fights. This torture is over.”
She said a word of magic and then hurled the gem with all her might.
H e was starting to slip. His strength, while great, was not enough. The light around the two swords faded, only a little, but it was visible to both, and both knew what it meant. Lathaar was about to break.
“Is this it, coward?” the dark paladin cried, ramming even harder against Lathaar’s defenses. He slammed down with his swords, again and again. The weapons crackled, now the only light underneath the canopy of leaves. “I would prove my strength, but you prove your weakness!”
Lathaar wanted to say something, to counter with his own words, but his arms could no longer bear the weight. The twin scimitars came slashing in, the black fire surrounding them as strong as ever. He blocked, but his arms shrieked against the weight. The power from the blow knocked him from his feet. His short sword fell from his grip. darkness enveloped it as it left Lathaar’s touch. The other faded in much of its brightness, no longer an Elholad. His faith was still strong, but Lathaar’s will had been weakened and his resolve shaken. He no longer felt certain he could win, and in their fight, that was all that mattered. Krieger saw this and knew. He held his weapons high, gloating in their darkness. The gems on his gauntlets flared.
“I want you to know,” he said. “I want you to see just how much Ashhur has abandoned this world.”
He pressed the yellow gem beside his third knuckle. As the magic enacted, and he looked to where Mira had lain, he saw her resting against the tree in the center, pure hatred on her face.
“Boom,” she mouthed to him as the gem attached to the small of his back detonated. Krieger howled as fire exploded around his waist. His armor twisted and shrieked amid the blast. The force took his legs out from under him, and in the air he spun and fell. Blood pooled underneath his body. He tried to move, but his legs felt strange and foreign to him.
Lathaar gave him no reprieve. He took to his feet and ran, his sword ready.
“You were beaten,” Krieger spat as the other paladin hovered over him, his blade poised for a killing blow.
“But I wasn’t abandoned,” he said.
“Nothing’s fair,” Krieger said. “Nothing’s right. But your death will be.”
He s
lammed his right hand against the dirt, breaking a hollow jewel atop his gauntlet. Lathaar thrust his blade deep into the earth below, but it was too late. Krieger vanished in a puff of smoke and shadow, the sword passing harmlessly through the after-image of his body. Furious, Lathaar pulled free his weapon and kicked at the dirt.
“Coward!” he shouted.
“Lathaar,” Mira said, still resting against the tree. “I need you, please.”
She slumped against its base, laid her head against the bark, and then smiled at him.
“I stopped the game,” she said. “I stopped…”
By the time Lathaar reached her, she had closed her eyes and fallen into a much needed sleep.
K rieger reappeared deep within the forest. From a pouch on his side he drew out a silver-blue vial and drank its contents, then broke the vial on a root beside him.
“That damn sorceress,” he said between grunts of pain. He could feel his legs again, that was good. “I proved you weaker,” he continued. “I was the stronger! I proved, I proved…Karak is the true god, you wretch!”
He fell back, his hands clasped around his waist. It would take months before he was back at full fighting shape. But the girl was free, and with her at Lathaar’s side there was no way for him to fight a fair duel.
“Because of her, you think you are not abandoned,” he seethed. “Because of her, you think your god saved you. You cannot win by your own strength so you coddle to others and act as if they were divine intervention.” He sheathed his swords and struggled to his feet. His legs were uncooperative, and he walked as if he were incredibly drunk. At least they did work, however poorly. If his back had been broken, no amount of potion would have saved him.
“Come to me, Demonwail,” he said, rubbing a red ruby on his gauntlet. Black smoke pooled at his feet, growing thicker and thicker while taking the shape of a demonic steed. The creature neighed in greeting, its hooves fire, its eyes shimmering ash. Krieger cast aside the broken pieces of his armor, knowing the weight would only slow him down. He used all the strength in his upper body to mount the creature, gasping in air at the pain it caused.
“Ride on,” he told Demonwail. “Out of the forest. We ride to Karak’s hand.”
7
M ira dreamt of a field of roses, the vibrant red petals swaying in a soft breeze. A small patch of grass in the center was her bed. The sky was clear. Everything was at peace.
It’s waiting for you, she heard a voice say. Everything is well. The mirror must be shattered, Mira.
She saw a dagger appear, floating above her breast in the hands of an unseen assailant. It twirled and then plunged into her heart. She felt no pain. Peace, pure peace, flooded her.
As it must.
A shadow fell across the land. Heavy rain clouds covered the blue sky as the roses wilted and died. She heard their cries, a swan song of crimson petals. A hand shimmered into view, still clutching the dagger. Crawling upward, the shimmer revealed more and more of her attacker. Mira saw a shadow twin of herself holding the dagger. She remembered the mind she had touched, the chaotic being that had heard her psychic pleas.
“Tessanna,” she said, her voice a whisper. Thunder rolled through the clouds.
“Shattered,” said the other girl. With a gruesome cry, she twisted the dagger and tore it through flesh.
T essanna!” she screamed, waking from her nightmare. Lathaar’s arms were around her instantly, his long brown hair falling down about her face. She buried herself in his chest, sobbing.
“It’s all right,” he told her, gently rubbing the back of her neck. “Everything’s all right.”
Mira sobbed, still hearing the shrieking of the flowers. Lathaar continued to stroke her head, but his mind had latched onto her cry of a name she had no business knowing. Troubling as it was, it was a departure from obsessing about Krieger, and his mind needed the distraction.
“I’ve healed you as best I can,” he told her. “Keziel’s abilities make mine look like a child’s. Just a few days ride, and you’ll feel right as rain.”
“Thank you,” she told him as her sobs slowed. “Thank you for coming for me.”
The paladin nodded but kept silent about his own guilt. She had suffered greatly, all as a ploy to bring him to fight. Her mouth and hands were both terrible sights. All across her body he found cuts and bruises. Worst of all, he had let the man responsible escape.
“Mira,” he asked, “how do you know that name?”
“What name?” she asked, wiping tears from her face.
“You screamed it as you awoke,” he insisted. “Do you remember what it was?”
“Tessanna,” the girl said. “I don’t know who, just…I know the name. I think it’s important.”
Lathaar bit his lower lip. Keziel had been right. The two girls were identical.
“You need to come with me to the Sanctuary,” he told her. “Keziel has things you need to hear, to understand. He knows what you are, Mira. Your eyes, your magic… he can explain.”
Mira accepted his hand as she stood.
“I’m afraid to hear it,” she said. “The world beyond my forest is a mystery to me. But I sense in your heart you feel it best, so I will go.”
“Thank you,” Lathaar said, standing. The two embraced. “Let’s go,” he told her when they separated. “I’m sure Jerico will be thrilled to meet you.”
“Who’s Jerico?” she asked, taking his hand.
“Jerico’s a paladin like me,” he said. “He’s a bit older, carries this enormous shield. You know my swords? Well, his shield…”
They walked and talked as Lathaar told her all about the red-haired paladin, who at that moment was receiving a soft, burning kiss from the girl with the blackest eyes.
S everal miles away, as the sun was just beginning its rise above the horizon, Tessanna touched Seletha’s mane and whispered for her to stop. She readily obeyed. Qurrah leapt off the horse, ignoring the sharp pain in his back. Daylight was finally upon them, enough so he could read the words of the tome he clutched to his chest.
“Will it be dangerous?” Tessanna asked as she levitated to the ground. “Reading it, I mean.”
“Stories tell of many who went mad looking upon its pages,” Qurrah said as he stroked the cover with his fingers. “If this is true, my will is more than sufficient to overcome it.”
“Be careful,” the girl said, crossing her arms and twisting her body side to side. “I don’t want to see you hurt. It’d make me sad, and I don’t want to be sad.”
“If I appear to be in pain or suffering, do not disrupt me,” he told her. “If my concentration is broken, I might be lost to madness.”
“At least you’ll be with me amid it,” Tessanna said. Qurrah was unsure if she was joking or not, so he let the comment pass. He put his back to the mountains and faced the rising sun. He undid the straps around the book, tossed them aside, and opened it. His entire body tensed, and he sucked in a single breath. Tessanna watched, her black eyes timid and curious. For a few moments he remained quiet and still, his eyes flicking over the page.
“Qurrah?” she dared ask.
“Lies,” he said, exhaling. “But this doesn’t appear to be spells, this is…”
He turned a page and read, his eyes darting over the words. Tessanna watched, curious but not wishing to intervene. He flipped another page, then another. His jaw dropped as he read, and his face locked in a stunned expression.
“This isn’t a spellbook, not in the standard sense,” he said. “No magical enchantments protect it, and it contains no inherent power.” He looked up at his lover. “It has spells, many in fact, but all the stories, all the legends, were wrong.”
“What is it, if not a spellbook?” Tessanna asked.
“There is only one person who could have written these words,” Qurrah said, holding the book before his face as if it were made of gold. “This is Velixar’s private journal, telling of the very creation of man.”
S teady, Demonwail,”
Krieger told his horse as they neared the stone structure. Seven obelisks formed a circle around a faded carving of a roaring lion. Before the lion was a giant pit filled with ash. The statue seemed almost alive in the dim light of dusk, ready to devour those who came before it without proper sacrifice. Kneeling before it was a man clothed and hooded in black robes. The dark paladin dismounted, wincing in pain from his wound. He had not stopped to bandage them like he knew he should have.
Krieger limped to the altar, his hands on his sword hilts.
“Priests of Karak used to meet here at every full moon,” the man at the altar said, not moving from his knees and his head still bowed. “They would cast a thief or murderer upon the flame, burning the chaos from his flesh. When did they stop coming? When did the rituals of old lose their power?”
“The world is losing faith in rituals and gods,” Krieger said. “Even those who follow our ways are losing perspective. It’s been so long since Karak and Ashhur walked this world that doubt has grown like a plague.”
The bowing man nodded in agreement.
“I do not blame the commoner,” he said. “We are responsible for shaping their minds. They will believe what we tell them, if our faith is strong. Truth comes from faith.”
“I seek aid,” Krieger told him.
“For your wounds?”
“I am no weakling needing aid of a healer,” the dark paladin said, harsher than he meant.
“Neither am I,” the other man said. He stood, kissed his fingers, and then pressed it against the nose of the lion. “Watch your anger. It gives you strength in battle, but you do not war against me.”
“Forgive me, I would never insult the hand of Karak,” Krieger said.
“That is a name I have not known in many years,” the man said, turning to face the dark paladin. His eyes glowed a fierce red, and his face continually shifted its features so that every time Krieger blinked he would be unsure of what had changed and what had remained. Everything but the eyes. They never changed.
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