A Sliver of Redemption (25 page)

“We’ve heard many wild rumors,” Peleth said as he walked ahead. He was a large man, his belly round and his pants held tight by an over-extravagant gold buckle. While they walked, he gestured wildly with his right hand and massaged his goatee with his left. “Men and women fleeing Mordan have told us their priest-king holds sway over the dead, and that his soldiers fight with a fanatical zeal. We’ve tried to build our defenses accordingly.”

He led the king through a maze of tents leading to the bridge. Just before the bridge they stepped into and then out of a deep trench.

“In case we have to fall back,” Peleth said.

“I’m no simpleton,” said Bram.

Peleth shrugged and continued on. The bridge itself was a pale imitation of the Gods’ Bridges, but the Corinth was no Rigon River, either. Neither top nor bottom had arches: instead there were seven columns on either side propping up the flat crossing. Despite its name, the bricks were a faded gray.

“We’ve built several lines of defense,” Peleth said, pointing to the palisades of wood wrapped together with rope. “Just a few, and kept them low enough to strike over the tops. It’ll be tough climbing over if we have to retreat, though.”

“Then I suggest we don’t retreat.”

“I don’t expect us to lose the bridge,” Peleth said. “Only reason why I didn’t make a retreat any easier. Like I said, I’ve been talking to these people, and I know what’ll happen. If they’re that damned certain to win, they won’t try to crush us on the bridge. They’ll wade right through the water and to Karak with the casualties. Rain’s been low, and it’ll only go up to their chests.”

“Do we have the men to protect the riverside?” asked Bram.

Peleth gave him a smug grin. “Just you wait until you see what I’ve got waiting for them should they try to cross.”

They left the bridge and went to one side. Bram looked about and was sorely disappointed.

“Where are the palisades along the banks?” he asked. “We have time, and wood from the forest nearby. Why leave the riverside defenseless?”

“Look closer into the water,” Peleth said, his smug grin not at all lessening.

Bram leaned over, but saw only mud and his frowning reflection.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Exactly. I’ve been wanting to try this since that Moore the Red pulled a similar tactic on me up near Lake Cor. Brought me a whole mess of smiths. Follow me.”

He led them back into the camps, toward the heavy sound of hammers. Sure enough, ten master smiths worked around hastily constructed forges, their helpers hurrying to and fro. Bram saw them working on either square plates of iron, or thin spears of metal.

“I don’t like riddles,” Bram said. “What is all this?”

“Here,” Peleth said, reaching past one of the smiths and grabbing a strange object. “Take a hold of this.”

Bram accepted it, and he turned it over in his hands. It was an iron plate, flat and twice the size of his hands. Attached to its center was a four inch barb.

“Watch,” said Peleth, taking it out of his hands and placing it on the ground. He hovered his foot above it, gently letting the tip press against his boot.

“You hope to hamper them when they charge,” said Bram.

“Not just hamper them. I’ve had them working on these nonstop for weeks now. The ore’s low quality, had a stockpile of it for ages wondering what to do with it. These’ll work perfect. They’ll be rushing ahead, all hollering and hoping to catch us by surprise, but then they’ll plant foot on these beauties. They’ll
drown
, Bram. These won’t let go, and they’re not light. Get a whole mess of men behind, pushing and shoving to move forward, and they’ve got nowhere to go but down into the water. Best of all, no one will have a clue what’s going on until it’s too late.”

Bram grinned at the simplicity.

“Not bad,” he said. “Though I think we should still set up some palisades. How many do you have of these devils?”

“Over a thousand,” said Peleth. “My men have been shoving them into the water night and day.”

“A thousand?” He looked at the contraptions with a whole new respect. “Damn. I’m glad we’re not the ones trying to cross.”

“And don’t you worry about holding that river side,” Peleth said. “I may not look the warlord, but you’ve been treated with silk gloves down in Angkar. Up by the lake, we have the real bandits. You get your knights and hold that bridge, where the fighting is bloody and honorable. Down here in the mud…I got my own plans. My men’ll be ready. I promise you that.”

Bram smiled, clasped the man’s wrist, and pumped it twice.

“This works, I’ll make sure your lands double in size,” he said.

“The other lords won’t like that,” Peleth said.

Bram picked up one of the spike traps and held it before his face.

“The other lords didn’t give me these,” he said.

“S
o where are you going?” Harruq asked as he neared.

Jerico winced, and he was glad the half-orc couldn’t see his guilty reaction.

“Was hoping to do this quiet,” he said. “But you’re not one to cooperate just for the sake of being nice, are you?”

Harruq laughed. They stood at Jerico’s campfire near the outer edges of the camp. His tent, however, was conspicuously absent. Instead, all of his supplies were on the paladin’s back, including his shield. Harruq pointed and then waggled his finger.

“I’d say you were trying to run from trouble, but that isn’t like you or Lathaar. So how about you tell me what’s really going on before I start yelling for soldiers to lock you in some stocks until you change your mind.”

“Friends of mine are in trouble,” Jerico said, shifting his pack so it hung more comfortably from his shoulders. “I spoke with several men from Mordan in between their prayers, and let’s say I didn’t like what I heard. People dear to me, people I nearly failed to protect once, are trapped and in danger. I have to help them.”

“And the fight at the bridge?” asked Harruq.

Jerico shrugged. “I’ll try to make it back in time. If not, you’ll have to kill double for me.”

He winced, waiting for a reaction, but instead the half-orc laughed again.

“Far as I know, you haven’t sworn yourself to any king here, so get going. I’d recommend going really, really far south before crossing the river, though. You hear about them spike things they’ve been laying? Not a time for a casual swim, but neither do I think they’d be too keen on you walking over the bridge.”

“Thanks,” Jerico said, and inwardly he sighed with relief. He’d worried Harruq would call him a coward or bring too much attention to his leaving. Even worse, he thought he might run and tell Tarlak. He bowed awkwardly due to the pack, then hurried off.

Of course, he didn’t get far. Less than five minutes later a blue portal swirled open, but instead of the wizard, Lathaar stepped out. Without a word, Lathaar punched him in the chest, hoisted his own pack, and then trudged west.

“That’s for trying to leave me behind,” he said without looking back.

“You were needed back there,” Jerico insisted, feeling like he’d done something wrong even though he was sure he hadn’t. “Someone needed to preach the light of Ashhur to the soldiers before battle.”

“Keziel is my friend as well,” said Lathaar, slowing a little so they could walk side by side. “I know that’s who you’re hoping to rescue. The question is, why? What is going on at the Sanctuary?”

“Two different men told me that Mordan’s priest-king had sent soldiers and priests of Karak to surround the Sanctuary, effectively trapping them inside. They’ve held out, so far as they know, but as for food and water…I won’t let them waste away, not when I have my mace and my shield.”

“And my swords,” said Lathaar. “Those at the crossing will have to make do without us. You’re my brother in arms, Jerico. Don’t try something like this again.”

“Will you punch me again if I do?”

“Yes. And much, much harder. Here’s far enough. Let’s wade across.”

Holding their supplies above their heads, they pushed across the river and into the land of Mordan, where Melorak ruled.

21

“K
eep it quiet,” Deathmask said as he and Veliana watched the wagon roll toward the enormous gates of Mordeina. He glanced back, saw her scarred neck, and then chuckled. “I guess that won’t be much of a problem for you.”

She jabbed him in the side with her fingers.

“Fuck. You.”

He grinned. Her voice was steadily coming back, but still she spoke in broken sentences. Every word was pain to her.

“Watch your mouth, little lady. And keep it down.”

They peered over the small hill, through the heavy grass atop it. The wagon lumbered slowly, as if the oxen pulling it were tired from a long journey. They saw two riders at the front, only one of them visibly armed with a blade. The wagon itself was covered, but the time and size accurately matched their expectations.

“It’s loaded with grain,” Aaron Hocking had told them at their last meeting. “Just the first of many coming in from storehouses along the wall of towers. You want to starve the city? You burn those wagons down to the very last grain.”

Deathmask had volunteered him and Veliana for the task, not that there had been much choice. Time and money, or more importantly the lack of money, had dwindled down their forces. They still had a token force, but they were scattered about the city, killing the stray guard and whispering words of rebellion. Besides, the day he and Vel couldn’t handle a single wagon was the day he hung up his mask and took up farming.

“You want the driver or the guard?” he asked.

“Guard.”

“Take all the fun.” He put on his mask and then scattered ash into the air. “Loop around. I’ll distract him. On three.”

He lifted his fingers, then counted down. On the third, he rushed out, moving silently in his red robes. The sun was setting, the sky a dark blue. With neither of the men up front wielding a torch, he reached the wagon before the driver spotted him out of the corner of his eye. It was that same eye Deathmask hurled a bolt of shadow into. His body convulsed as the power rolled throughout, exploding his brains inside his skull. The guard drew his sword and shoved the body aside.

“Don’t be foolish, just surrender the wagon,” Deathmask called out to him. The guard lifted his sword as if to surrender, then jerked forward. Veliana pushed him off and hopped atop to grab the reins, not bothering to clean her daggers before she slipped them back into her belt.

“Easy,” she mouthed to him.

And then the wagon’s covering collapsed, revealing twenty soldiers inside, plus Haern, who lunged before she could even react.

“Vel!” Deathmask screamed, his hands a blur. Dark lightning arced through the men, killing two. He saw Haern land atop Veliana, his feet blasting the air from her lungs. She tumbled off the side, and Haern followed, his cloaks flapping behind him as he fell.

Deathmask killed another soldier by striking him with his hand, the magic pouring through his armor and into his heart to stop it. He tried to cast another, but something hard struck the back of his head, and he collapsed. His vision darkened, and he fought to retain consciousness. He couldn’t fade out now, not with Veliana in danger, not with her alone against that undead freak that was Haern…

W
hen he opened his eyes, Veliana lay beside him. If he’d been a religious man, he might have praised a god that she was still alive. They both lay on their stomachs, their arms bound behind them. He felt more than happy, however, to blame all the deities for such a horrible predicament. As he made a list of spells he could cast without somatic components, he felt something sharp press against the base of his spine.

“I wouldn’t try anything,” someone said behind him. “Melorak’s pet has his eye on you, and he’s a fast one. You’ll be dead before you get off the first syllable of a spell.”

Not good. Not good at all. Haern had a saber against his back. There weren’t enough gods for him to curse. He looked to Veliana, whose look back said it all. They were dead, and they both knew it.

Time dragged on, and in no hurry. Deathmask kept his breathing loud and steady. Veliana knew a little bit of magic, and she was far more nimble. If he kept Haern’s gaze locked on him, perhaps she could think of something, because he sure hadn’t yet. He breathed heavily through his nose, hoping the volume might become a drone they stopped listening to. Some of his spells were just a few syllables, and if he could get one off before a saber ran him through…

For a moment he thought of trying the same trick as before, and faking his and her deaths. He chuckled. Doubtful that would work. Not this time. Besides, Haern was too thorough. He’d cut off both their heads to make sure.

The mood of the men suddenly shifted, and he glanced to his side to see many legs approaching, one in particular wearing flowing black robes ornately decorated with silver and gold.

“Excellent,” he heard the vile voice of Melorak say. “Tell Aaron he shall have his wealth returned in full, and his estate removed from the priesthood.”

Aaron,
thought Deathmask, feeling a thorn in his gut.
Aaron Hocking? That spineless weasel sucking…

A foot crashed into his side, and he groaned as he rolled over. When he looked up, he saw Melorak glaring down at him with his single good eye.

“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?” he asked. He reached down with a pale hand, his fingertips sparking with magic.

“Not near enough,” said Deathmask. “How about you send your little pet somewhere else, and we can discuss this like civil men?”

Melorak brushed his fingers against his mask. It caught fire and burned. Deathmask screamed as he felt his flesh blacken, the smoke stinging his eyes despite how tightly he clenched them shut. He howled as he flailed against his bonds. A foot pressed hard against his chest, and he could only assume it was Haern’s. Once more he felt the tip of a blade on his skin. His jaw trembling, his eyes hopelessly watery, he did his best to smile.

“That was my mask, you asshole.”

The blade pressed into his flesh. It was quick, in and out, and not deep. Just enough to draw blood and send more pain spiking up his spine. He tried not to scream. He did. Damn body felt like screaming anyway.

“You have information I need,” he heard Melorak say. “You’ve done well, tormenting my guards and fostering rebellion, but it ends tonight. But I know you are not alone. The leader of Ashhur’s priests was never found when I conquered this city, and I know he lives. Where is Bernard, Ghost? Where is he hiding?”

“Why don’t you ask your snake-bellied friend, Aaron?”

Another stab, higher up. The blade scraped against his rib bones on its way out. More screaming.

“I have, but Bernard was not there. Perhaps Ashhur warned him, or he sensed deception. Where are your safe houses? I know your kind. You never would have trusted Aaron with every secret. You’d keep one or two to yourself, as leverage should things go ill. Well things have gone ill, you miserable wretch. If you want a quick death, you’ll tell me where he might have gone.”

Deathmask’s mind raced. Bernard wasn’t supposed to have moved positions, but it wasn’t unheard of, given how careful they’d been. But where could he have gone? Where might he hide that Aaron would know nothing of? And even if he did remember…would he tell? Since when was he so hopeful for a clean death? With his life, a messy, brutal execution seemed more appropriate anyway.

He forced open his eyes. His skin felt like a leathery mask shrinking in on itself. What his face looked like, he didn’t even want to know. Through the blur, Deathmask saw Melorak leering down with his arms crossed, while Haern stood nearby, his foot on his chest, his sword hovering just above his heart.

“Fuck you,” he said.

No sword. No stab. Instead Melorak knelt down beside him and grabbed his neck. In his cold grip, he held up his head and forced him to stare into his red eye.

“You may think you’ll never tell,” he said. “But the dead will always talk to me. You don’t have a choice in this matter. Tell me now, or after I kill you and bring back your ghost. Perhaps I’ll even leave you in that state. You certainly deserve it.”

Deathmask felt a sliver of doubt pierce through his pain. Melorak was most certainly not bluffing. He’d seen the rows of corpses hanging from hooks throughout the castle. The man was a master of death, while he himself was only a dabbler. Should his soul be wrenched back into this world, he would tell everything.

“Go ahead,” he said, making up his mind. “I’ll give you nothing.”

“Not yet,” Melorak said, rubbing a finger against Deathmask’s face. He bit his teeth to hold in the scream. “See, when you’re dead, you won’t feel the pain. Oh, there are ways I could make you uncomfortable, perhaps terribly so, but nothing this fierce. Nothing this
intense.
”

Deathmask screamed as Melorak’s fingers dug in so tight he thought he’d claw his face off like a mask. His blisters pulsed with agony. Blood seeped down his jaw and neck. Any thoughts of spells or escape fled. All his mind knew was overwhelming suffering.

Perhaps he passed out. He didn’t know. But Haern no longer stood atop him. He rolled to one side, forcing his eyes open. Veliana was on her back, Haern’s sabers against her throat. She remained strong, refusing to even whimper.

“What of you?” Melorak asked her. He gestured to the soldiers around him. “Would you prefer a clean death? Or should I give you to the men? You’ll be anything but clean afterward. Normally I’d frown upon such lewd methods, but you are the Ghost’s Blade, after all. Out of every sinner in this world, I cannot imagine anyone more
deserving
of such a fate.”

“Besides yourself?” he heard Veliana ask. He winced when Haern kicked her in the face, probably breaking her nose, but he’d never felt such pride. That’s my girl, he thought. Show them you’re not afraid, either.

“Your wit is childish and unimpressive,” Melorak said. He crouched beside her and gently brushed her hair from her face. With his own robe, he cleaned off some of the blood dripping from her nose. “The time for pettiness is over. You know I cannot let you live, not after how many you have killed. Karak demands punishment, and I must give it to him. But it need not be lengthy. It need not be one of pain and blood. A simple spell, a gentle touch of your breast, and I can stop your heart. Tell me where Bernard is. I assure you, no matter my frustration, I would never let these men defile your corpse after your death. Save yourself from them, from everything. Please. Where…is…Bernard?”

She looked to Deathmask, and in her good eye, a bit of dire humor sparkled.

“You want to know?” she asked. “I think you’re about to find out.”

Sunlight exploded amid them, as if a nova had burst into existence there upon the road. Deathmask thought to free himself, but he’d stared directly into that light, and his mind reeled in confusion. He struggled, but his bonds were tight, and the words to spells seemed slippery in his mind, elusive things he couldn’t grab a hold of. Hands wrapped around his chest, and suddenly he was up and moving, his legs running as if on their own accord. The ground shifted unevenly below him, and he started to fall.

“Keep running,” he heard Veliana say. He clutched her tighter and did his best to resume. He glanced back only once, and through the orange and yellow blobs blotting his vision, he saw Bernard standing between them and Melorak, a halo of light circling his feet. Golden lances slashed from his hands, cutting down guards.

“Help him,” Deathmask muttered as they neared the top of the small hill from where they had spied the wagon’s arrival. “We should…”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Veliana said. “At least, I hope so.”

They half-ran, half-stumbled down the hill. Deathmask felt his vision returning, and his steps grew in confidence.

“North,” he said. “We have little time.”

“Time for what?” she asked.

“Hocking…”