Sergan laughed. “You worry too much. A few days ago we thought we were all doomed. Now you’re king and Ashhur’s given us an army. I may not be a religious man, but I know a time for faith when I see it.”
Antonil chuckled. “I guess you’re right,” he said.
“Of course I am.” He picked up his ax and hefted it over his shoulder. “Now, if it pleases your highness, I would like to start inspecting our newly granted troops.”
“Go easy on them,” Antonil said. “At least until they accept orders from a man of Neldar. I’d hate to see you strung up before we leave.”
“They can try,” Sergan said as he climbed down the ladder. “But try is as far as they’d get.”
The next day, Antonil knelt before his queen, accepting her public blessing. Rows and rows of soldiers filled the streets. Wagons spotted the fields surrounding the city, filled with provisions for the army. The weather was warm, the sky clear, and the sun bright.
“Don’t try to come back a hero,” Annabelle said to Antonil as she kissed his forehead. “You already are one. Just come back alive.”
“I’ll do my best, milady,” Antonil said. He stood, drew his sword, and shouted an order. The soldiers turned, crying out the name of their beloved city. Toward the gates they marched. Women and children lined the edges of the street, shouting goodbyes to their fathers, friends, and husbands. Annabelle remembered a similar ceremony, when her then husband had sent the might of Mordan after the Dezren elves, banishing them from their kingdom.
Unable to watch, she returned to her castle. Her footsteps echoed in the empty chamber. As she sat on her throne, feeling old and empty, a man stepped from behind a pillar and bowed low.
“Greetings, your majesty,” he said, his mismatched eyes glinting.
The queen held in her startled cry.
“Perhaps you are unaware of who I am,” he said, pacing before her. “But I’m sure you know what I’ve done. My name is Deathmask, and I come with my guild. It is we who stopped Bernard’s wrongful execution. And as for the assault on Karak’s priests, well, consider me a fortune teller, carrying out your orders before you even gave them.”
Annabelle’s pulse quickened as three more stepped out from behind pillars. Two of them were twins, while the third was a beautiful girl with a wicked scar over one eye. They all held daggers and watched for guards as they approached.
“Killing me gains you nothing,” she said, trying to sound brave.
“We’re not here to kill you,” Deathmask said, and he chuckled as if the mere thought were absurd. “Although your bounty on our heads is making life difficult. We’re here to discuss that little issue.”
“I will not cower before threats,” she said. “I still have soldiers at my disposal.”
“Threats?” Deathmask asked. “I bring no threats. I come with a deal. Tell me, your highness, how many priests of Karak have your guards killed since your order?”
Queen Annabelle tilted her head, her eyes darting between the four.
“Not many,” she admitted. “Perhaps they fled the city.”
“You saw the lion in the sky,” said the girl with the scarred face. “You know they remain.”
“They will strike now, while the city is vulnerable,” Deathmask insisted. “However, if we were to find them, and execute them, well…”
He made a grand gesture to the entire castle, grinning wickedly.
“Then the city would be made safe,” he said.
“What do you want in return?” she asked.
“Revoke your silly bounty,” Deathmask said. “It will only cost you soldiers if you don’t. Also, we prefer a bit more shadier form of… entertainment. Hayden’s laws need repealed. Death should not be the punishment for a small amount of debauchery.”
The queen stood and pointed to the door.
“Leave,” she said. “Come back when you find them, and bring me proof of their deaths. They whispered lies into my ears for long enough. Your bounty is rescinded. The rest awaits your return.”
“You are as wise as you are kind,” Deathmask said, bowing.
“And you are as manipulative as you are ruthless,” Annabelle said, dismissing his bow.
Deathmask laughed.
“Come,” he said to his Ash Guild. “We have work to do.”
That night they scoured the city but found no trace of the priests. They had already left under cover of darkness, through tunnels built a century ago for just such a case. The newly crowned Melorak led the way, a group of fifteen priests with him. They moved in silence, needing no words spoken.
They headed south, where the Elethan mountains ended in small, craggy hills. Many caves lined their bases, with streams flowing in and out. The priests weaved between the caves, stepping over the water when they could. As they penetrated deeper into the hills they saw smoke blotting out the stars, the result of a large bonfire. Melorak raised his hand to stop his priests.
“Pray to Karak for strength,” he told them. “And beware the lies of the other. Distrust his image. He may look like the prophet, but do not be fooled.”
They continued. The remainder of Karak’s army camped in a basin formed by six hills, with tents on either side of a stream that ran through the center. There was only one fire, and beside it stood a being similar to Velixar, his hands raised to the night sky as he cried out prayers. Melorak led his priests into the camp, slowly nodding his head at the tested who spotted his arrival.
“We are fellow servants of Karak,” he told them. “I wish to speak with your leader.”
The tested led him to the fire. Preston waited for them, his features shifting in the orange glow of the flame.
“Welcome to my fold,” he said. “My name is Melorak, and I command the faithful to Karak.”
“The faithful?” the true Melorak said. “Perhaps. That is what I’ve come to test.”
“Test my faith? I am ordained by Karak himself! I bear the prophesied name. Mordan will fall, and by my hand.”
Melorak pulled down his hood from his face and stood to his full height. His eyes shone a fierce red, and shadows danced at his fingertips. “I am the true Melorak,” he said. “I am the one Karak has waited for. You are a pretender, a deceiver, and a liar. Your time is done.”
“Blasphemy!” shouted Preston, his features quickening their changing. He hurled a bolt of shadow, but his opposite scoffed, the magical attack splashing across his robe as if it were water.
“Who here answers the true call of Karak?” Melorak asked. “Who here desires order among this chaos? Get behind me, and remain there. Those who think this… rotting thing you have created is a prophet, then stand behind him.”
At first none moved, but when Preston glared at his priests, furious at their hesitation, the crowd around them began to move. Priests and tested moved behind each side, with Melorak having only a third of the camp.
“A shame,” he said. “But this game must end. Karak has found his faithful, those worthy of such an honor that I will bestow.”
“Banish him from my camp,” Preston said. “I am the heir to Velixar, not him.”
They unleashed a wave of curses, shadow, and fire. The attacks all broke, as if a barrier were between the groups. High above them, smoke pooled together in a massive, angry cloud. Lightning cracked and exploded within.
“Pray!” Melorak shouted. “Beg for mercy! It is not too late! The faithful will survive, but the fool, the coward, he will burn, for eternity he will burn!”
Wind soared into the basin, howling angrily. The grass stood erect, flooded with magic. One by one, the stars faded away. Many beside Preston hid or cried out in fear. Their leader ordered them silent, but they paid him little heed.
“On your knees!” Melorak cried. “Humility for your error! Repentance for your arrogance! It is not too late.”
A scattered few fell to their knees, but the vast majority remained standing. Melorak hardened his heart. They had chosen. Karak’s power swirled about them, and s
till they clung to their choice. So be it. He heard Karak’s voice in his ear, clear and unwavering.
“Judgment!” he shouted. “It is now!”
The cloud tore open, and from within lions fell, their fur made of shadow, their teeth, moonlight. They roared in unison, their claws outstretched, their red eyes glinting with fire. They descended upon half the camp, tearing through flesh and crunching bone. Those that knelt, or stood behind Melorak, went unharmed. Preston, however, cried out a desperate plea to Karak as three lions circled around him.
“I did your will!” he shouted. “It was always your will.”
“You did as you desired,” one of the lions said. “Never Karak’s.”
They pounced on his rotting form and tore it to pieces, his frantic screams the last in the basin, followed only by prayers for forgiveness and mercy.
The true Melorak looked upon the carnage and smiled.
“Only the faithful remain,” he said. “As it must be. The prophet failed to understand the great damage a faithless follower could do.”
“Praise be to Karak,” said one of the priests as the lions faded away like smoke.
“Indeed,” Melorak said. “Praise be to him.”
They spread out, cleaning up the remains of the dead and casting them upon the bonfire. The basin was theirs now, and they had work to do.
The first night they camped with the angels, the Eschaton slept in a single, giant tent that Tarlak somehow carried inside his hat. As the rest gathered around, he called Azariah over. With a twist of his hat, the blackened pendant that had harmed Lathaar fell to the ground.
“We were hoping you could tell us what to do,” Tarlak said as Azariah analyzed the pendant from afar.
“I’d prefer an explanation of what it is,” Lathaar said. “Since it nearly killed me and all.”
Azariah clutched a similar pendant that hung from his neck.
“When Velixar still lived, he was the high priest of Karak, known by a name now long forgotten,” he said. “Back then I was high priest for Ashhur, effectively Velixar’s counterpart. When the war broke between the gods, each of us were slain in battle. Ashhur made me as I am, as we all are, in the golden eternity after his imprisonment. Velixar, however, was given a different reprieve. Karak gave life to his bones. He trapped Velixar's soul in his pendant, and bade him never to fall until his release.”
“So Velixar can never die?” Harruq asked.
“He can,” Azariah said, gesturing to the pendant. “If that is destroyed.”
“Simple enough,” Jerico said, standing and grabbing his mace.
“No!” Azariah said. “There is more to it! For many years we’ve hoped a paladin of Ashhur might find that pendant, for its proximity to Velixar is deadly to him. He loses much of his strength so close to the object his life is contained within.”
“So we use it as a weapon?” Tarlak asked.
“I can talk to him then,” Azariah said. “Learn from him. No other man in this world has seen as much as he, and his understanding of clerical magic is immense.”
“What would you want to learn from him?” Aurelia asked, shifting uncomfortably against Harruq’s side and pulling their blanket higher. “He’s a vile thing. There’s no wisdom in that corpse.”
“He has been to the places Ashhur cannot go,” Azariah insisted. “He has heard the only voice Ashhur cannot hear. If I could just have a year or two to…”
“There will be no such thing,” said Ahaesarus as he entered the tent, Judarius at his side.
“Where is the pendant?” Judarius asked. Tarlak pointed to where it lay on the ground. The angel readied his enormous mace and approached.
“This is a mistake,” said Azariah.
Judarius hefted the mace high and swung. The pendant shattered into pieces. Purple smoke flashed into the air, the potent smell of sulfur burning their eyes.
“Too many centuries he has walked the land,” Ahaesarus said. “If we see him, we end him, and this time he’ll stay dead.”
The two left the tent. Azariah remained, sadly shaking his head.
“It is a sacrifice that sometimes must be made,” he said, slipping his pendant underneath his robes. “Faith over knowledge, safety over learning. So be it.”
He bowed to them all and left, his wings rustling against the flaps of the tent.
“Well that was depressing,” Tarlak said. When the others gave him strange looks, he clarified. “Even after death, it appears we’re still stuck with politics.”
The paladins laughed, and the others rolled their eyes and did their best to sleep.
Miles away, feeling abandoned by his god, Velixar shrieked in fury and terror as he felt truly vulnerable for the first time in centuries.
Haern limped up the stairs, the hairs on his neck standing on end. His heart thudded in his chest. He needed a window. He needed to see. Ominous but familiar shapes had poisoned his dreams, and when he awoke he had heard the sound of his nightmares.
“Please, no,” he whispered. “Just no.”
He found a window and looked out. Shimmering over the night sky was the lion, its outline traced in a bloody red. Again it roared, shaking the city with its sound.
“Damn you, Karak,” Haern said. “What game do you play now?”
It had been four days since Antonil’s departure. Bernard had cast healing spell after healing spell, and through the daily rituals Haern found his strength returning. But whatever priest cast the lion image, he was too powerful for him in his current state.
He returned to his bed, but when he sat down, he paused. The shadows were wrong.
“I know you’re here,” he said. “Show yourself.”
The lone torch in the room danced, and as the shadows flickered one of them leaped off the wall, growing thin white claws. Haern rolled back, drawing his sabers. He stabbed upward as he hit the ground, his attacker atop him. They cut through the shadow, doing no visible harm. The claws scraped his face. Its body might have been intangible, but its claws were real, and as blood splattered across the floor Haern rolled.
The shadow lunged after him, claws leading, but Haern dropped to the floor. The shadow sailed over him, its claws entangled in the thick cloth of his bed. Haern spun, tossing his sheets over the shadow. Dropping one of his sabers, he grabbed the torch and yanked it free. He faced his attacker, trying not to be disoriented by the way the cloth shook and moved as if a real person were underneath. What he fought was a denizen of Karak’s Abyss, and every act was lie and deception.
The cloth dropped, and the shadow slid underneath, its claws shredding their way out. Haern beat it back with his torch, swinging and parrying it as if it were a sword. The shadow shrieked as the fire passed through its being, the unearthly sound a combination of bird and lion. It leaped back, slashed its claws against the wall, and then lunged. Haern swung, but it lashed at his torch with both claws and then bit down on the handle. Blood spurted as the teeth sank into his hand. Haern kicked, but his foot passed right through. Desperate, he spun, tore his hand free, and fell to the bed. The shadow hovered over him, its toothy grin dripping with blood.
It lurched forward, shrieking its bizarre call. The shadows shrank inward, the teeth and claws shattered, and only Deathmask remained, standing at the door with a hand outstretched and glowing purple.
“I thought they would come for you,” he said.
“Who is 'they'?” Haern asked, wrapping his bleeding hand with a torn part of his shirt.
“Wish I knew,” Deathmask said. “Karak’s priests are proving far more… dangerous than originally expected. Tonight they launched an assault, and I had a hunch they would try to finish you off while you were still weak.”
“I’m hardly weak,” Haern said, tightening the knot on his hand with his teeth.
“Not at full strength, then,” Deathmask said. “And try not to be insulted. You’re not the only powerful man to nearly die tonight.”
Outside the castle the lion in the sky roared in vict
ory.
“Shit,” Deathmask said. “There’s only one other person they could be after.”
“Who?” Haern asked, slipping between the sorcerer and the door.
“Bernard lost his hand,” Deathmask said, glaring. “Would have lost his head if not for Veliana. Same can’t be said for many of his priests. Now get out of my way; the twins are trying to protect the queen!”
Haern focused on the pain in his hand, using it to fight away the aches in his bones and the sharp throb in his chest.
“I’ll lead the way,” he said.
The two ran up the stairs and down a well-lit hallway.
“The queen’s room is the other way,” Deathmask said as they ran.
“That’s not where she’ll be,” Haern said. “Now hurry!”
As they neared the back of the castle they turned, they way opening up into a garden. The queen sat on one of the benches, aimlessly twirling a flower.
“Your highness!” Haern shouted. She stood, dropping the flower as a flash of anger crossed her face. Behind her, her shadow in the moonlight stretched longer and longer.
“Move!” Deathmask cried, a spell already dancing on his fingertips. Haern leaped, slamming his shoulder into her side and pushing her away. The queen’s shadow lunged from the ground, shimmering claws stabbing. It sliced air, and then Deathmask’s spell struck, a purple and gold ball of magic that exploded the shadow into smoke. Deathmask sighed as Haern helped the queen to her feet.
“If there are any spellcasters in this city,” Deathmask said, “you might consider hiring them to protect you.”
“If there are any, they’re in hiding,” the queen said, brushing dirt off her dress. “And have been since Valrik was an advisor to my husband. He banished their kind when he realized how much influence they had over him.”
“Your husband had a knack for banishing people,” said Deathmask.
“Sometimes it was warranted,” Annabelle said, holding her arms to her waist and looking about. “Valrik was an evil man. What is going on in my kingdom, rogue? The lion roars in the sky, and my people are frightened.”
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 120
