A Sliver of Redemption (36 page)

It was time the Ghost ignited the fires of rebellion.

B
ernard 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.”

“You have not yet won,” said Bernard.

Again Melorak laughed.

“Not yet, perhaps, but the time is coming. This is the end. Can you not feel it?”

The white light grew in his palms.

“Yes, I can. You are right about that. It is indeed the end.”

Bernard pressed his wrists together and opened his palms. A beam of pure white light shot forth, releasing with a great crack that blew away the dead grass and rattled the gnarled branches. Melorak crossed his arms and summoned a shield of shadows. The light met the darkness. The ground shook from the impact. The shield held, but Bernard gave him no reprieve. He made slashing motions with his fingers, and golden swords shimmered into existence, hovering in the air directly before Melorak. They broke against the shield, unable to penetrate.

Melorak grabbed a chunk of dirt and flung it. Shadows swarmed about the projectile, and Bernard summoned his own shield. When the projectile struck, it exploded into a hundred lances of shadow, which splashed across the white dome protecting the priest.

“There is no chance for you,” Melorak said, hurling bolt after bolt of darkness. He didn’t seem to care that they splashed harmlessly against the shield, for he surely knew every impact drained a bit more of Bernard’s energy. Bernard felt a moment of doubt but shrugged it away. He’d come to die. He’d made peace with that. The only thing that mattered was that he took Melorak with him, or at the very least, weakened his control over the dragon long enough for the others to stand a chance.

“Such certainty,” Bernard said, dismissing his shield and slamming his palms to the ground.

A shockwave traveled across the dirt, throwing chunks to either side. In its very center swirled an orb of silver. Melorak leapt aside, knowing he could not protect against it. The orb struck the stone wall and then continued on, blasting a hole in the castle before continuing through. Bernard stood before the great trench it’d created and unleashed a second.

This time Melorak spun, his body rapidly cocooned with shadows. Just before the orb reached him, he vanished. Bernard summoned another shield, expecting an attack. He was right, for atop the tree Melorak reappeared, a beam of darkness already screaming from his palms. Bernard braced his legs and gasped as it hit. His head throbbed, and he felt his body slide several feet back along the grass. He was old, while Melorak was young and blessed with an unnatural life. His features shifted and changed, masking the death and rot behind. For some reason, Bernard felt anger at such an illusion. How dare he assume supremacy while hiding from what he was?

“Enough!” he cried, flinging aside the beam and then slamming his hands together. A wave of magic rolled over Melorak, dispelling the illusion. The red light left his eye, becoming a dull brown. The shifting of his features ended, revealing gray flesh pockmarked and in full rot. When he snarled, his lips drew back to reveal rotting teeth crawling with maggots.

“How dare you?” Melorak spat. He stood to his full height, two dark voids growing across his hands. “What is it you hope to prove? I have conquered death! I live when all others would have died! I am Karak’s chosen. I am his beloved! Look upon me with fear, you pathetic mortal priest. I am the hand of the true god, and I do not fear your faith.”

He flung the orbs, hollow, empty things that seemed to tear all light into them and snuff it out. Bernard summoned his shield, but then screamed at their contact. He felt his strength pouring away, the light swirling into them before becoming mixed with the nothingness. His mind blanked, and then he collapsed. The ground spun beneath him, and his breath came in wheezes. When he looked up, he saw Melorak glaring down, his face still a visage of death and decay.

“Tell Ashhur the walls of the Eternity grow ever thinner,” Melorak said. “Tell him I come for him next, marching at the right hand of Karak himself.”

He grinned, then suddenly staggered back as three daggers lodged deep into his face and throat. Despite such horrible wounds, he glared at the intruder. Bernard reached up, fighting off a swirling sense of vertigo to grab Melorak’s wrist. Light shone about his fingertips.

“Only dead,” he whispered. The spell flared out of him, powered by his faith. Melorak shrieked, first out of surprise, then agony. His rotted flesh turned to dust. His bones snapped and fell. Dark, ethereal strands of magic, like trapped spirits, soared out of his robe. And then Bernard held only a thin piece of bone.

“You stupid old bastard,” Veliana said, standing over him with her hand offered. Her grin was ear to ear. “Deathmask thought you might need some help.”

He accepted her hand. She pulled him to his feet, and he grabbed her shoulders to steady himself.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning his weight against her. “Forgive me for not asking for your aid earlier. I guess I still succumb to the sin of pride.”

“Enough of sins,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Let’s get to the streets. Our part in this is not over.”

Bernard chuckled. “May an old man catch his breath first?”

There in the ruined garden, they heard a vicious roar, from deep within the throat of Rakkar.

“No,” Veliana said, stepping toward the entrance. She stopped, drew her dagger, and looked back to Melorak’s corpse. “Actually, yes. There’s one thing I need first before we can go…”

29

H
e’d been told to trust the priests to open a way through the walls, but Antonil found himself doubting. They walked ahead of the soldiers, the one called Keziel leading the rest. They were but a handful, while the wall towered before them, white stone immensely thick. They seemed so diminutive in comparison.

“We’ve got no siege weaponry,” said Sergan, riding beside him. “We entrust the success of our entire attack to those priests. No rope, no catapults, no ladders, no siege towers. We’re doomed, completely doomed.”

“Such optimism,” Antonil said, though he felt similar sentiments. He glanced once more to the priests, then angled his horse over to speak with them.

“How much closer?” he asked as he trotted along.

“Just outside the range of their archers, if possible,” Keziel said.

Antonil looked behind, to where the thousand stood to defend their rear. High above, the angels had begun their battle.

“No time,” he said. “Begin now, if you can.”

“Continue to the wall,” the priest said. “Trust us, and we will fulfill our obligation.”

He rode back to Sergan and relayed the information.

“Ride on?” he asked. “They’re mad, right? They don’t even want us to wait and see if they can make it through? This is suicide, Antonil. We can’t. Turn back. Let’s aid in the fight behind, and then conquer the city at our leisure.”

Antonil looked to the priests, and then to the far end of the line, where Bram rode with his knights.

“No,” he said. “No, we trust them. I won’t doubt them, not now.”

Sergan followed his gaze, saw Bram, and then lifted an eyebrow.

“What’s this got to do with him?” he asked.

“Consider it opposing views of how to be a king. Send the men on.”

The priests stopped, gathered together for a moment of prayer, and then turned to the wall.

“Keep our sight clear!” Keziel shouted, and the men shifted to either side, giving them a gap in the lines. Antonil thought about staying beside them, then rode on. He would not remain behind and appear the coward. His thousands continued their rush to the walls of Mordeina, though he felt a moment of despair when Bram’s knights remained back.

“He keeps himself and his most trusted safe,” Sergan said. “The cowardly sot.”

“They’ll charge when the walls fall,” Antonil said. “I hope.”

The priests’ prayers echoed louder, and they knelt with their palms facing the wall. A great beam shot forth, collected together from their power, and then pressed against the city gate. The wood and stone buckled, and even from that distance they could hear it cracking.

“I’ll be damned,” Sergan said. “Hey, keep those men away from that…that…whatever the Abyss that thing is!”

The soldiers spread further away from the beam, and they charged with renewed hope.

And then the roar swept over them from the city. A great beast soared over the walls, looped about, and then dived for the charging men, its reptilian wings folded against its sides. Smoke trailed after it, as if billowing from its obsidian scales. Again it roared, and the wave of sound was like a fear curse placed upon every member of Antonil’s army. They stopped and trembled, with many turning to flee.

“What is
that?
” Sergan asked, his jaw hanging open.

“It can’t be,” Antonil said, watching as it circled high above them. “Only stories, nighttime tales…a dragon. They don’t exist. They can’t.”

The creature swooped low, belching dark fire in a wide arc. Antonil veered his horse to the side to avoid the last of it. Those caught in the blast rolled and screamed, their bodies covered with a clear liquid that burned black. The dragon circled again, then dived, and this time Antonil had the wits to issue a command.

“Attack!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Attack now, or we all die!”

He led the rush, bolting his horse directly into the dragon’s path. The creature slammed into the ground, barreling through soldiers like they were twigs. It snapped and lunged, biting men in half. Those who tried to face it stopped before its great claws, as if confused how to attack. Its tail whipped left and right, breaking legs with each snap. Their archers fired arrows, but they plinked off without a dent. All thought to attack the walls halted in the face of that monster.

Antonil rode through his men, spurring his horse on. When he reached the dragon his mount leapt, and he swung his sword in a desperate arc. Men gave chase after, those brave enough to die at the side of their king. All Antonil saw was dark scales and burning eyes, and enormous teeth opened to engulf him. He slashed the scales across the dragon’s snout, but his sword bounced off. Its warm breath blew against him. He felt more than saw the bite. He flew against the dragon’s side as his horse screeched in pain, its body torn in two. Antonil dug his sword between the scales and held on for dear life while his men clamored toward it, slashing at its claws and stabbing at its face.

Seeing his men die, Antonil twisted the blade and rammed it deeper in until blood poured across his hands, black as ink. The dragon twisted once, then belched fire across the field, burning hundreds alive. Again he twisted the blade, but it didn’t seem to matter. His army was lost. They would die without ever reaching the walls. So much for his throne. So much for his plans. They’d crumbled before the teeth and scales of Karak’s pet.

“Not yet,” he growled. He was just beneath the wing, and as it flapped he reached up and grabbed another scale, careful to lay flat against the body to avoid the spikes along the bone. When his grip was secure, he pulled his sword free and stabbed it higher. As if scaling a mountain, his sword his pick, he ascended amid the screams of the dying. At last he reached the dragon’s back, its spine protruding through the flesh. He tried stabbing it, but the bone was too hard. His sword only slid aside.

Suddenly the dragon howled and leapt back, shaking from side to side. Antonil held on to the bone and looked to see what was the matter. Bram’s knights had come riding in, hurling spears toward the dragon’s face. The horses still circled, just outside the reach of its tail. When it turned to belch fire, those at its sides lunged in and thrust their swords through the grooves of its scales. As it turned, Antonil saw the priests’ spell had ended, they too having given up on the wall. Instead he saw golden chains lash around the dragon’s claws and face. It scratched and tore at them, but the distraction was enough for the footmen to assault. They died by the hundreds, but inky blood covered their corpses, stab after stab wounding the great beast.

“Its neck!” he heard someone shout, and the rest took up the cry. “Go for its neck!”

The men swarmed its front, and Bram’s knights threw the last of their spears for its throat. As the blood continued to pour, the dragon beat its wings and tried to flee, but then came more glittering shackles. Kept landlocked by the priests’ will, it started flailing and biting, slaughtering more and more in a horrific display of blood.

Forcing himself to look away, Antonil climbed along the spine toward the dragon’s head, stopping only when its flailing was too much for him to move. At one point it reared back, and the ridge of its spine slammed into his chin. Blood filled his mouth, and he swore he’d bit his tongue in two. He turned, spat, and then continued on, his sword still clutched tight in hand. When he reached the neck, he lay flat and found a groove where the vertebrae connected. Before he could strike, the beast shuddered and screamed. Its flesh turned a sickly color, as if it had suddenly lost much of its strength. Not willing to waste such an opportunity, Antonil stabbed the sword with all his strength deep into the spine. This time the dragon’s shriek was a lengthy wail. Its wings crumpled, and it collapsed to the field, whole body shaking. Antonil clutched the hilt and endured the violent throes. The remaining footmen swarmed over it like ants, stabbing and hacking it to pieces. Blood spilled across the battlefield like a black pool.

When at last it lay still, Antonil withdrew his sword and stood atop the corpse. He raised the blade high and hollered a mindless cry of victory to his troops. Bram’s knights did not stay, for they were already riding south, to where their flank had weakened to the point of crumbling.

“Antonil the Dragon Slayer!” someone shouted as he climbed down, and others quickly took up the cry. A soldier brought him a horse, and he mounted it on shaking legs.

“Gather up,” he said. “Back to formations! We still have a city to take!”

They cheered despite the thousands that lay dead around them, nearly a third of their force. He rode to the priests, who had gathered to resume their spell.

“Can you get us through?” he asked.

“We shall see,” Keziel said. A grin tugged at his lips. “I’d hate to disappoint the Dragon Slayer.”

Antonil laughed and slapped the priest on the back, leaving an inky handprint atop the white cloth. Trusting Bram to protect their flank, and the priests to open the way to the city, he rode back to the front and urged his army on. The white beam shot forth, slamming into the city gates. Already weakened, they crumbled and broke, gaining them access to the ground between the two walls. The beam continued, striking the thick stone. Though it seemed almost unaffected, Antonil urged them on.

“K
eep them off of me!” Tarlak cried as he dropped to one knee, avoiding a swing that would have cut off his head. He flicked his hand, and a thin bolt of electricity arced into the soldier. As his muscles broke into spasms, Lathaar spun about and cut him down.

“Trying!” Jerico shouted back. He slammed his shield forward, its light flaring over the many attackers. They winced and stepped back, and then he shoved and swung with his mace, trying to clear a space for the wizard to cast. To the other side, Lathaar steadily weaved his sword back and forth, his blade of light shattering swords and ignoring what little armor the conscripts possessed. Compared to the battle-hardened men who fought beside him, having faced demons, undead, and the best soldiers of Mordan, these foes were unskilled and clumsy. But they also outnumbered them by a horrific amount.

Tarlak staggered to his feet, his vision swimming. He’d used nearly every spell in his repertoire, plus a few more he made up on the spot. He’d layered the battlefield with fire and ice, flung boulders, and lost count of how many bolts of lightning he’d thrown. Still they came. All around, they were hard pressed, cutting men down nearly three to one, but it didn’t matter. They were dwindling, might have already crumbled if not for the stalwart paladins.

And every time the dragon roared, he felt their men weaken a little bit more. But this time, that roar seemed different…pained instead of victorious. He chucked a fireball over the heads of the paladins, not caring what it hit or how dramatic the explosion, and glanced back to the city. The dragon lay on the ground, its body swarming with soldiers.

“Not possible,” he muttered, stunned.

“Get back!” Lathaar shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him along. “It’s a rout!”

The rest were fleeing toward the city, hoping for safety with the greater army gathered there. With no other choice, Tarlak ran along. As he gasped for air, he wondered just how closely they were followed. A conscript could be a mere pace away, his sword ready to thrust deep into his back, all because he was unprepared and couldn’t…

He looked behind to settle his fears. He was wrong. The conscripts were five paces back, not one. This didn’t make him feel much better.

“Faster,” Lathaar urged, tugging on his arm. Tarlak’s breathing quickened. His lungs felt on fire. He wondered how in the world Lathaar could run so long in his plate mail after flinging his sword around like a madman. If he lived, he vowed to drink less wine and try to exercise with Harruq occasionally. Sweat dripped down his neck.

“Can’t,” he said between puffs.

“Keep going,” Lathaar said, glancing back.

Tarlak followed suit. Karak’s army was maintaining pace, and one by one soldiers fell and were trampled underfoot. Jerico was only a step behind them, his shield slung across his back. His look to Lathaar was dire.