The Shadows of Grace

David Dalglish

THE HALF-ORC SERIES

Prologue

Qurrah was already bleeding by the time Harruq found him. He lay curled into a ball with his arms over his face as the bullies kicked and spat, taunting his size, his heritage, his strangeness.

“Orc-shit!” one cried, just before Harruq barged in.

“Get off him!” he screamed, slamming the boy away. His fist caught a second on the chin, and with grim satisfaction he saw blood fly. Before he could try for another, he felt something hard ram into his gut. Rage flooding his veins, he lashed out, his vision a blurred mess of tears and red anger. His punches struck the largest of the boys in the face, splattering blood from his nose and bruising his eyes. Arms pulled at him, blows rained upon him, but Harruq flung them aside.

“Get away from us!” he roared, standing over his wounded brother like a primal being. His breath was slow and labored, and blood ran down the side of his face from a cut he never remembered receiving.

“Your brother’s a freak,” the eldest shouted, still clutching his nose.

“You seen what he did to that rat?” said another, tense and ready to attack if the others moved to join him. “Killed it, then brought it back. He ain’t right.”

“Hurt him again I’ll break your necks,” Harruq growled.

He was younger than them by a year or two, but already a foot taller. The boys spat at him, but even outnumbering him they turned to leave.

“Can’t watch him forever,” said the oldest just before they left. “We’ll do to him what he did to that rat, except no one’s going to bring that orc bastard back.”

Harruq did his best to ignore them. He knelt over his brother, who lay wheezing on his stomach. His face was swollen and bruised, and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Qurrah said, his voice raspy and weak.

“Come on,” Harruq said, hoisting him to his feet and then bracing his weight against his shoulder. “Let’s get you safe.”

“You’re hurt,” Qurrah said, looking him over.

Harruq chuckled.

“Forget me,” he said. “My little bruises got nothing on yours.”

The two half-orcs left the small alley and traveled south along the main streets of Veldaren. Harruq kept his arms around his brother, leading him through the crowd. Whenever he could he stole a glance to see how Qurrah was holding up. From the grimaces of pain, he didn’t think too well.

“Just hang on,” he said, putting himself in the way whenever someone jostled them or refused to move. “We’re almost home.”

“We have no home,” Qurrah said.

“It’s got a roof,” Harruq said, but didn’t press the matter further. He felt the eyes of strangers watching him. Some even walked into him, as if loathe to acknowledge his existence. Street urchin such as the two Tun brothers were often ignored, and their orcish blood only made matters worse.

“Wooh-wee, someone gave you what’s what,” one of the vendors called out as they passed.

“Ignore him,” Qurrah said.

They reached their home, a building abandoned after a fire gutted its upper and lower floor. Harruq had found that if they were careful, they could climb up to the second floor and lay where the damage was less. From it they had a clear view of the stars, something both brothers were fond of watching when the nights were warm and the weather calm.

“I can’t climb,” Qurrah said, glancing at the broken stairs with a wince.

“Not a problem,” Harruq said. He lifted Qurrah into his arms and then gingerly took the first step. They held, so he took another, and step after careful step he ascended to the upper floor. When he laid his brother down, Qurrah clutched his arms to his chest and erupted into a violent coughing fit.

“Easy now,” Harruq said, kneeling beside him. He saw the vicious bruises, and carefully he lifted Qurrah’s shirt. His whole chest was a black and blue disaster. Harruq lifted him back into his arms and hugged him as the coughs slowly lessened.

“Are you crying, brother?” Qurrah asked.

“Course not,” Harruq lied.

They settled down for the night without anything to eat for supper. The night was pleasant, but they still lay close together for warmth because of their lack of blankets. The sun set, and one by one the stars twinkled into view. Harruq counted them until the number grew too high.

Qurrah was quieter than usual, having said little for the past hour. He broke the silence by pointing to the sky and whispering.

“I’ve heard people wish upon the stars for luck,” he said. “Have you ever done that, Harruq?”

“Not really. Wishing won’t make things change.”

Qurrah nodded.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“I know.”

“That rat was dead when I found it. I just brought it back.”

“I know.”

The silence returned. The last remnants of daylight faded, and above them twinkled the beautiful blanket of stars.

“What would you wish for?” Qurrah asked.

Harruq chuckled.

“You mean besides a good meal, maybe some blankets and a roof?”

Qurrah rolled over and put his back to him.

“Forget it,” he mumbled.

Harruq shifted uncomfortably. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and put them behind his head.

“I’d wish to be a great fighter,” he said. “The greatest that ever lived. No one would pick on us, not ever again. Make a bunch of coin, maybe buy a great big house. I’m strong enough. I could do it. Maybe then I could protect you…”

He stopped. He’d said more than he meant to, and laying there poor and bruised, it seemed a pathetic, desperate wish. For a while Qurrah did not respond, but at last he rolled over and looked to the stars.

“I’d wish to be normal,” he said. “Nothing special. Nothing strange. Just normal, normal as any other kid. So normal I could walk down the streets of Veldaren without anyone saying a thing. Without anyone noticing. I’m tired of being hated for what I cannot change. If I’m to be hated, at least let it be for what I’ve done.”

Harruq shivered, a chill worming its way up his spine.

“That’s really what you want?” he asked.

Qurrah nodded.

“Like everyone else,” he whispered. “No fear or hate or anger…”

He closed his eyes and said no more. While he slept, Harruq remained awake, staring at the night sky and wondering what it’d be like to walk down the streets of Veldaren no different than anyone else.

1

Qurrah marched through the conquered streets of Veldaren, Velixar and Tessanna at his side. Priests and paladins of the death god Karak surrounded them. The priests sang as they traveled south, rejoicing in their victory over Ashhur, Karak’s brother and enemy. A huge throng awaited them. Rows of armored war demons lined the streets, keeping the defeated citizens in line.

“A pitiful rabble,” Qurrah said at sight of the crowd. His voice was soft and raspy. Like Velixar, he wore dark robes of Karak. The blood of orcs and elves mixed in his veins, adding a delicate curve to his pale gray body. Tessanna held his hand as they walked, a beautiful black haired girl with eyes dark as caves, and a mind fractured and broken. Qurrah gestured to those kneeling and offering their lives to Karak. They were cold, hungry and scared. “Cowards who would offer themselves to any god to spare their scraps of life.”

“We sow fire and destruction,” Velixar said. “There is no place for them.”

“You promised them safety,” Qurrah pointed out. As their orc warriors had torn through the gates, Velixar’s message to the city had been clear: Kneel and live; worship or die. Qurrah smirked at his former master and teacher. “You also insist you never lie.”

“The truth serves us, as it does Ashhur,” Velixar said. “We must find the faithful amid the cowardly.”

Krieger, young leader of the paladins of Karak, drew his sword and knelt before his god’s prophet.

“What would you have my men do?” he asked.

Velixar looked down at him, pleased by his eagerness.

“Test their faith.”

In the middle of the street the dark paladins placed ten thick stumps of wood. Around the corner, unable to see the preparations, waited the surrendered people of Veldaren. Krieger selected his ten most faithful to stand ready, their swords covered with black fire. Velixar walked before the crowd, magically heightening his voice so all would hear.

“These men’s swords possess the power of Karak,” he said. “Those with faith shall not be burned. Those without should pray, for Karak shall soon welcome your souls.”

War demons dragged the first ten around the corner to the chopping blocks. They placed their bound wrists upon the wood. As one, the dark paladins raised their blades and looked to their leader. Krieger lifted his hand, then deferred to the prophet.

“Let the tests begin,” Velixar said.

Down fell Krieger’s hand. Screams filled the air as all ten watched their hands cut from their wrists, the cruel black fire on the blades sizzling as blood spilled across them. The demons grabbed the writhing men and tossed them aside. Another ten, three of them women, knelt before the blocks with hands bound and ready.

“Have faith,” Velixar said. The swords fell. The screams increased. Ten by ten they came, their faith tested, hands severed, and maimed bodies dumped to die. The priests of Karak watched, relishing the sight. It had been ages since such a test of faith was given. Almost always it was to small towns, farming villages, never a city grand as Veldaren. The ten dark paladins reveled in their work, each stroke accompanied by heartfelt prayers.

The wounded lay in the dirt, most sobbing in pain, some unconscious from the loss of blood. A few staggered about, fighting to stay standing.

“Over a hundred,” Qurrah said as more and more came. “Not a single faithful.”

“Not true,” Velixar said. “You aren’t looking correctly.”

“Qurrah’s always been blind,” Tessanna said.

Velixar glanced at her, frowning. She had cut off her left ear and mutilated her face. Two slashes trailed along the sides of her chin, two more from her scalp, past the corners of her eyes down to her lips. One long gash ran from the center of her forehead to the bottom of her throat. Seeing such beauty tarnished panged his decayed heart.

“Perhaps,” Velixar said, gesturing to the tests. “But be silent. The first is ready to show his true faith.”

His bleeding stubs pressed against his chest, a gasping man approached the chopping blocks and knelt.

“Test me again,” he said.

“Your hands are cut. Your faith is false,” the dark paladin said to him.

“Test me again!” the man shouted. At this Velixar raised his hand, and obediently the paladin stepped back.

“What will you offer?” Velixar asked. In response, the man put his head upon the block.

“My faith is real,” he said. He was gasping for air, his lips quivering with fear. “Test me again.”

“Your head will be severed,” Velixar said.

To this the man laughed. “Then Karak can test me again and again for eternity.”

“Tell me your name,” Velixar said.

“Bertram Goodblood,” he said, his cheek still pressed against the wood.

“Stand, Bertram, and count yourself among the faithful.”

Priests rushed to his aid, bandaging his bleeding stumps and rushing him toward the temple. Velixar smiled at Qurrah, who only shook his head.

“It is those who offer their lives despite their failures that Karak seeks,” Velixar said. “No one is truly tested until they first doubt their strength.”

“Then you amass an army of failures,” Qurrah said.

Velixar laughed. “I prefer those who have tried, failed, and admitted that failure over those who pretend to have never known its sting. Ashhur’s followers have fallen into that trap, surrounding themselves with illusions of perfection and obedience while denying this single truth: all are failures. All are all made of chaos and darkness. If Ashhur will not tap that strength, then I will.”

With a wave of his hand, ten more came forward. Swords with black fire waited, ready to mutilate, sever, and bring forth the faith that Karak so desperately desired.

T he moon shone bright by the time Ulamn and his demons returned to Veldaren. While Velixar had been testing the faithful, the demon general had taken flight with much of his army in pursuit of the city’s fleeing refugees. Velixar beckoned Qurrah to follow as they met the winged soldiers.

“Amusing,” Velixar said as he watched the army descend from the sky. “How many did they lose? Two hundred? Three?”

“My brother and his friends are not to be underestimated,” Qurrah said. “If they can stand against Tessanna and I, what are a few hundred soldiers of sword and armor?”

“Yes, they have that elven girl, don’t they?” Velixar said, remembering his confrontation with Aurelia years ago in Woodhaven. Their magical battle had been wonderfully violent.

He walked through their ranks, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Where is Ulamn?” he shouted.

“I am here,” the demon said, landing with a loud crack of stone. He wore crimson armor and a golden helmet, his ponytail pulled through its back. “What is it you want, voice of the imprisoned god?”

“You attacked them,” Qurrah said, not giving Velixar a chance to answer. “You gave chase, and for what gain? You went in blind and unaware of the strength of their fighters.”

“Do not question me, half-breed,” Ulamn said, glaring at Qurrah. “I killed more than I lost. We are warriors of Thulos! We are here to fight and die, not wait and ponder. And if we had waited, they would already be long gone.”

“A mess of unprepared refugees and soldiers surely cannot outpace your winged warriors?” Velixar asked.

“They created a magical doorway,” Ulamn said. “I don’t know to where, but it is certainly far from here. Many escaped. I commend them, for they fought more valiantly than most worlds I have faced.”

“A doorway,” Velixar mused. “To Omn, or perhaps the elves?”

“It matters not,” Ulamn said. “All kingdoms will burn, until our banners decorate every hill and our sigils mar every stone.”

Ulamn eyed the two necromancers, his lips curling into a sneer. The two were withering by the hour, their strength sapped into maintaining the portal through which he and his soldiers had arrived. Much as he detested informing them of his plans, he knew they needed to survive, lest the portal collapse and his men be trapped. But if he was to be stuck with them, he could at least test their mettle.

“The battle was not a total loss, despite our casualties,” Ulamn continued. He gestured to where a final squad lagged behind the others. Tessanna slipped through the demons and joined Qurrah’s side as the demons neared. She wrapped her arms around his elbow and kissed his neck.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said.

The squadron landed, ten bound and bloodied prisoners in their arms. One immediately caught their attention. Ulamn grinned, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Upon the battlefield we obtained a most amusing prisoner, a paladin of Ashhur. Even wounded and defeated, he had interesting words for my warriors.”

The war demons formed a semicircle around the prisoners. Ulamn stood beside the three as Qurrah eyed the paladin. He recognized his face, and more importantly, the shield a demon tossed to the ground beside him. His name was Jerico, and he had been wounded protecting the portal so the people of Veldaren could flee.

“You have plagued me ever since the Sanctuary,” Qurrah said. Jerico shrugged his shoulders.

“Just doing my job,” he said. “Ashhur would be disappointed if I left vermin like you alone.”

Qurrah laughed. “Hollow, defensive words. You are scared, paladin.”

“By our law he must be executed with the others,” Ulamn said. Again that dark sneer crossed his face. “But how shall he be executed? For that, I offer him to you. You may choose his death, and carry it out as you desire.”

Velixar crossed his arms, his ever-changing face quickening its subtle morphing. How long had it been since he had questioned a paladin of Ashhur? How long since he had been given a chance to twist and corrupt the ideals of a false god into something true and powerful? All around, demons readied their weapons. Desperate, Velixar searched for a way to keep the paladin in his care. Every plan invited rebellion by the demons. The beginnings of a spell burned on his fingertips.

“Wait,” Tessanna said, approaching Jerico with a strange look in her eye. “I know this man, and he is not yours to take prisoner.”

“What nonsense do you speak, girl?” Ulamn asked.

Tessanna knelt down and tilted Jerico’s face so all could see the long scar that ran from his head, past his ear, and down to his chin.

“I have marked him,” she said. “He was mine to kill, many days before you and your kind stepped foot upon Dezrel.”

“A simple scar, yet you claim ownership?” Ulamn asked. In answer, Tessanna pulled back her hair and revealed a similar scar, although much more faint.

“Payment for payment,” she said. “He is mine. I will kill him as I see fit, when I see fit. Isn’t that right, Jerico?”

She leaned in close, as if they were about share a kiss.

“What game are you playing?” he whispered to her.

“You aren’t saved,” she whispered back before kissing his lips. “You’ll still die, but you’ll die for me, just me…”

She stood, feeling hot jealousy rolling off Qurrah.

Good, she thought.

“Will you honor her claim?” Velixar asked.

“So be it,” Ulamn said. He drew his sword, turned, and beheaded the nearest prisoner. The other eight died just as swiftly. Blood spilled across the ground, pooling together. Ulamn hurled Jerico into it, glaring as it splashed across the paladin’s face, hair, and armor.

“Be covered in the blood of your better,” he said. “May you reek of it forever.”

The demons headed to their camps, leaving the three alone with Jerico.

“Come,” Tessanna said, waving a finger. Jerico’s bound body hovered above the ground and followed the girl into the castle. Qurrah stayed behind with Velixar.

“You scowl with jealousy,” Velixar said.

“He should be killed, not coddled,” Qurrah said, crossing his arms and looking away. “Every breath he draws is one too many.”

Velixar shook his head. “She carries your child, Qurrah. She has given you so much, and now you seethe and glare. You have no trust, no love. She is a seed, and you are the soil, and before my eyes you turn dry and hard. Do not be a fool.”

He turned and walked inside, leaving Qurrah alone beneath the stars.

O f all his armor, of all his maneuvers, the best defense Jerico knew was prayer, and so pray he did as Tessanna eyed him, her dagger drawn.

“Guide me, Lord,” he prayed. “May I trust the dawn to come, no matter how dark the night.”

“Trust all you want,” Tessanna said. They occupied what had once been the king’s bedchambers, secluded and alone. “The dawn will not come. Not for you.”

“What do you hope for?” he asked. “What can you possibly obtain? Torture me, beat me, break my bones. Ashhur will take me home, no matter how bruised or bloodied I arrive.”

“Oh, he will take you,” Tessanna said. “But will you wish to go to him?”

She clenched the dagger between her teeth and circled him. With surprising deftness she unbuckled the straps to his armor. The heavy pieces of plate mail thudded to the carpet. She shoved his head, and the sudden movement forward made him scream. The demons had removed the spear piercing his side, but they had offered no healing, not even a bandage. The bonds around his arms and hands did well to hold him still, but the open wound bled freely.

“I smell the blood on you,” she whispered into his ear. Her fingers slipped underneath his arm, pressing against the wound. Jerico held in another scream. He felt her breath on his neck as she whispered words of magic. Light sparked from her fingertips, and to his amazement, the wound closed. He thought to thank her, but that thought died as she leaned closer, her cheek brushing against his.

“When were you last with a woman?” she asked, brushing her dagger across his throat. She giggled when he refused to answer. “What, no response? No clever comment?”

She stood and waved her hand. Magical forces shoved his back against the wall. She straddled him, her hands clawing the stone. Again she brushed her face against his, scar to scar.

“A strong man,” she breathed into his ear. “So strong. It’s been a w hile for you, hasn’t it? Would you take me, if you could? What would your god say about that?”

“You’re vile,” Jerico said. “May Ashhur one day forgive you.”

“You won’t counter me with love,” she said. “It’s love I want from you.”

“What you want is far from love,” Jerico said. He tried to match her gaze, but to his shame could not. Her eyes were so lustful, so yearning. He had prepared himself for pain and torture, but this…

Jerico shook his head. No, she only offered a different type of torture, one of temptation and mockery.

“I am not some pet of yours,” Jerico said. “Now bury that dagger in my throat or leave me be.”

Tessanna laughed. Her hands trickled down his chest, tickling the sides of his abdomen before sliding into his pants.

“Stop it,” Jerico said, his jaw trembling.

“You say Ashhur will take you,” she said, her lustful gaze turning dark and hateful. “Will he always forgive you? Even if you betray, even if you soil his name and dirty your spirit?”

“Ashhur is my light, I will not fear what I cannot see,” Jerico said, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He felt his gut churning, hating the way his body responded to her touch. Her hands shifted lower.

“Ashhur is my light,” he prayed. “Ashhur is my light, I will not fear.”

“Light,” Tessanna said, her other hand tracing tip of her dagger along his neck. “Light fails, paladin. It leaves you cold and alone, telling you to be happy even though you feel nothing but hate and sadness and despair. That light? You pray to that light?”

She grabbed his scrotum and pulled, snarling as her lips curled. Jerico screamed at the tremendous pain. Her hand twisted, and he screamed more. His breaths came in shallow gasps. Her touch was ice, her grip like stone. Her face scarred with torment and pain, she jerked again, her other hand clutching his face and forcing him to look her in the eye.

“You should have been there,” she said. “Been there when he raped me, all the while with a prayer to Ashhur on his lips. I’ve seen the falseness of your kind. I’ve seen your light. It fucked me, Jerico, and whatever it takes I’ll fuck you too.”

The door opened. Tessanna let him go and stood as Qurrah entered. Shyness stole away her hatred and anger. She put her back to Jerico, her hands clasped behind her as if she were caught by a parent doing something bad.

“Hello, lover,” she said. “Come to help me play with my pet?”

“Perhaps some other time,” Qurrah said, his eyes glancing about. He saw Jerico’s pain, but the paladin doubted he could guess the reason.

“What is it, then?” Tessanna asked.

“The night is late,” he said. “I’ve found us a place to rest. Will you join me?”

“Of course.”

She put away her dagger and took Qurrah’s hand. As they left, Jerico leaned his head against the wall and did his best to ignore the pain.

“I’m sorry!” he shouted. Tessanna turned, her arm raised defensively and her eyes bewildered.

“I’m sorry,” he continued. “Whatever his name was, whatever he did to you, I’m sorry.”

She glared as if stabbed, then left the room without a word.

“W hat was that about?” Qurrah asked as he closed the door behind them.

“Just lies,” Tessanna said, apathy stealing over her. “All he knows are lies.”

“When I came in,” he said, then stopped. She turned to him, knowing his worry.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t love him like I love you.”

Qurrah led her to a luxurious room reserved for noble guests, all the while thinking how, coming from her, what she had said meant so very little.

They slept in a luxurious bed with many violet bed sheets. His dreams were bleak, haunted by his brother’s face, always covered with tears. Always, he held the drowned body of his daughter.

Qurrah awoke to the sound of stirring from the small closet. Tessanna was rummaging through it, casting clothes to the floor. She was naked. Light streamed in through the windows.

“What are you doing?” he muttered.

“You lead an army that has conquered a kingdom,” she said, her back to him. “What does that make you, Qurrah? A king? A warlord? Does that make me your queen, Qurrah?”

“You are finer than any queen,” Qurrah said, sliding out of bed. “Prettier, and far less inbred.”

“Cute,” she said. “But if I am a queen, then I should dress like one.”

She pulled out a crimson dress. She smiled, then slipped it over her head. The fabric hung from her skinny body, the sleeves long and elegant. Gold trim lined the hem around the neck, sparkling in the low light. Tessanna flicked her hair behind her shoulders and smiled at her lover.

“Like?” she asked.

Her face gorgeous, her hair long and healthy, her dress thin and sensual and red: Qurrah could only laugh at such a ridiculous question.

“Of course I do,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

She tilted her head so that he could see the ear she had cut. Already it had grown back, albeit a little pinker. The five scars on her face had faded, now only sharp lines that added an exoticness to her face. Qurrah was stunned by the rapid rate of her healing. Tessanna was the daughter of a goddess; of that he had no doubt.

“I won’t cut myself like that again,” she said, suddenly shy and quiet. “I don’t know why I did. Mommy had left me, and breaking, becoming me again, it suddenly felt so terrible. I couldn’t bear it, and you weren’t awake, not yet…”

“I’m awake now,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “And I’ll always be here for you.”

“The demons are ready to move out,” she said. “They want to hunt. Velixar has convinced them to leave the elves for later, for when we have more forces. The humans should be far easier prey.”

“Who will guard the portal should the elves attempt to destroy it?” Qurrah asked.

The girl shrugged. “Those that continue to pass through. It appears their army is limitless, and perhaps it is. This world is doomed, Qurrah, and I can’t wait until we escape to a new one.”

He kissed her neck. “Come. Let us survey this army.”

The two exited the castle to see tents covering the castle courtyard, all waving small banners with a yellow fist. Qurrah shook his head, but was not surprised. He had slept horribly that night, each demon passing through the portal sapping a bit more of his strength. He wondered if Velixar fared any better.

“Do you know how many?” Qurrah asked.

“They have almost a thousand,” Tessanna said. “But no more come through the portal. I think Ulamn is nervous.”

“As he should be,” Velixar said, coming up behind them from the castle. “He knows both of us are sorely taxed. He will bring in no more, not for a few weeks. I think the two of us could both use the rest.”

“When do we leave for Mordan?” Qurrah asked.

“Soon,” Velixar said. “But we have a few things to take care of first.”

He pointed to a group of orcs that made their way among the tents. They were led by their masters, Trummug and Gumgog, and each looked furious.

“We was lied to!” Gumgog shouted as they neared. “Lied! Lied!”

“Shaddup, Gumgog,” Trummug said, elbowing the orc before offering a clumsy bow to Velixar. “We not happy, pet of Karak. Not happy at all.”

“What is the matter?” Velixar asked, his smile condescending.

“You promised me an army and a kingdom,” Trummug said. “Yet we have nothing.”

“You raped and burned this city to a shadow of its former self,” Qurrah said, scratching his chin. “Was that not worth your losses?”

Gumgog heard this and roared with laughter.

“No, the fighting more than good, lopped off so many heads…”

“But your new pets, the demons, they do not care,” Trummug said. “They no like Karak. They not listen to us. They claim this city, but what we get? Not going back to the Wedge! We staying here!”

“Yeah!” the other orcs shouted in unison.

Velixar turned to his disciple. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

Qurrah shrugged. “If they want land, give them land. Ulamn and his soldiers only seek to crush the established order to sow chaos. They have no interest in such claims.”

“Indeed,” Velixar said. He raised his arms to the orc masters and gestured from east to west. “All about are lands, and I give them to you. Bring your brethren in from the Vile Wedge. Swarm the northern plains with your axes! Crush the Green Castle. Burn Felwood Castle to the ground. Neldar is yours.”

“All of it?” Trummug asked.

Velixar nodded, a small smile on his face. “All of it.”

The orcs raised their weapons and cheered. Gumgog led them away, screaming for death and blood. Qurrah watched him go, strangely envious of their careless nature.

“Ulamn is prepared to move out,” Velixar said, also watching the orcs leave. “His pride is stung from his defeat. He won’t admit it, but he is pushing his troops hard. He wants surprise on his side when they invade Omn.”

“What hope do they have to stand against this army?” Qurrah asked. “Surprise will mitigate some losses, but it is no matter.”

“Forget them for now,” Velixar said. “Ulamn is not the only one with an army to raise.”

The army sworn to Karak camped opposite Thulos’s war demons. Over a thousand undead stood perfectly still, raised from the slaughtered civilians, soldiers, and unfaithful. Filling the western streets were the dark paladins’ tents, each flying a flag of the lion’s skull. In the other direction, smaller, meager tents stood for the hundreds who passed the test of faith. These new converts wandered about with bandages over their hands and gray robes given to them from the storehouses of the priests’ temple. The remaining priests of Karak bunked with them, constantly preaching Karak’s glory.

“An impressive sight, isn’t it?” Velixar said as they arrived.

“I wonder how necessary the demons’ help truly is,” Qurrah said. “How many more dead might we add as we march west?”

“Without the demons, the elves would decimate us as we traveled,” Velixar said. “I have felt the stings of their arrows often enough. We will let Ulamn’s pets deal with them in time.”

Tessanna curled her arms behind her as she walked among the handless servants, her fingers clasped tight. Velixar had called them the tested, and it made sense enough. Several watched her pass with vacant eyes, but most stared with frightening intensity. One man with messy blond hair and a broken nose accosted her, pressing the stubs of his hands against her arms.

“His glory,” the tested said, spitting as he talked. “Have you heard his glory? His wondrous glory?”

“I know of Karak’s glory,” she said. “But do you?”

“Order among chaos, perfection among the bloodshed!” The tested smiled. “All shall soon know. Pray to him, and you too shall know.”

“I have seen his order,” Tessanna said, putting her hand on the man’s shoulder. Black lightning sparked from her fingers. The man staggered away, howling like an animal.

“Tess?” Qurrah asked, hearing the howl and turning to see his lover staring with a cold, seething gaze. She slowly shook her head.

“Judge trees by their fruit,” she whispered as she neared. “And the only fruit I see is death.”

Qurrah glanced to see if Velixar heard, but it appeared not. A man dressed in the garbs of high priest had approached him and bowed low.

“Greetings, hand of Karak,” the priest said. “Welcome to our camp.”

“I have heard rumors,” Velixar said, not returning the bow. “Rumors of a new high priest to replace Pelarak.”

“I am he,” the priest said. “Once I was Preston, but now I am Melorak, the name given to me by Karak as I slumbered in the night.”

Velixar crossed his arms. His ever-changing face scowled at the many other priests who gathered about. By the way they surrounded him he could tell they believed him their leader.

“Karak whispers to me as well,” Velixar said. “As he always has. Yet I hear not your name, Preston, nor of any new high priest.”

Preston turned his palms upward. Qurrah frowned at the fake humility on the pudgy man’s face. His cheeks sagged as if he had once been very heavy but lost much of it at a rapid pace. He was bald, and he wore no jewelry or any open sigils to Karak.

“I do not claim to know Karak’s methods,” Preston said. “But I know he works in mysterious ways. Do you doubt my faith, or the vote of the other priests, hand of Karak? Do you doubt Karak himself, or are you in such a high position that our god must reveal every decision to you for permission?”

The red in Velixar’s eyes flared bright.

“You talk dangerously,” he said, his voice deepening. “I will not have Karak’s victory put at risk. Remember that, for I will be watching you.”

“Karak watches us both,” Preston said. “And I hold faith in his judgment.”

Velixar turned away, Qurrah and Tessanna trailing after. Once out of earshot, he began cursing long and loud.

“That fool,” Velixar said. “I knew I should have killed him while he was still a pup in training.”

“You still can,” Qurrah said. “He cannot match your power.”

“The priests would protect him,” Tessanna said. “Though I do not understand why.”

“Because he has them fooled with his humility and twisted words,” Velixar said. A trio of orcs marching down the street dared pass too near, and Velixar struck them dead with bolts of fire.

“He speaks half-truths and delusions,” the man in black said, staring at the burning corpses. “All he wants is power. He treats his faith to Karak as a tool. And that name! Only Karak has the authority to give such a name.”

“What does it mean?” Qurrah asked.

“Order-bringer,” Velixar said, his hands shaking with rage. “Believed to be the last name Karak will bestow before Mordan is destroyed and all of Dezrel conquered. It is a twisted prophecy. I am his prophet, and never once have I spoken it, but the priests cherish the delusion.”

“Such anger,” Tessanna said. “The world approaches ruin, and you seethe at a pathetic priest grabbing for power in the last days?”

Velixar whirled on her, his face freezing into a skull covered by the thinnest stretches of skin. Fire burned within his mouth as he talked.

“The priests have turned their backs to me time and time again,” he said. “Pelarak was one of the few who heard my wisdom and obeyed, but Ashhur’s lapdogs killed him. Many feel I am a relic from a time long broken. They whisper that I don’t hear Karak’s words, that I seek only control. Hear me; they will rally about Preston as a sign that my time has passed. The tested will follow them blindly. Soon they will turn to the dark paladins.”

They resumed their walk down the streets. Qurrah looked at the broken buildings, burned roofs and blood-soaked roads. How long ago was it he walked amid bustling streets, filled with mindless chatter and barter? The sight of such desolation stirred his gut. The entire world would soon be likewise. He knew he could not live in such a world. He and Tessanna would have to escape to another, escape from the work of his own hand.

“Will the paladins listen to him?” Qurrah asked when he felt Velixar had calmed.

“Krieger is their new commander,” Velixar said. “His faith in me is great.”

“His faith in us, though, is nil,” Qurrah said, his words squeezing a giggle out of Tessanna.

“You have already proven your worth,” Velixar said. “The portal is open, and Karak will soon be freed. But Krieger is young, as are his brethren. Preston will try to seduce them with his lies.”

“Why doesn’t Karak strike him down?” Qurrah asked.

Velixar shook his head. “I’m not sure if Karak can, but if he could, he still would not. You have seen the tested. Karak will see if his priests are true or not, whether they follow his prophet or fall for a lie.”

“And you will let that test run its course,” Tessanna said. “That’s why you don’t kill him.”

“Yes,” Velixar sighed. “That is why.”

Their walking led them to the southern gate. Stretched before them were the orc tents, all jostling with commotion. The orc army was preparing for departure. Soon they would spread out like a swarm of insects, all across the east. The few human towns left would be assaulted, burned, and destroyed.

“In a way, I long to join them,” Qurrah said. Tessanna wrapped her arms around his elbow, and Velixar nodded in understanding.

“There is a simplicity there,” Velixar said. “A joy in the slaughter. Do not succumb to it. Our path is harder, our trials greater, our achievements higher.”

“I need to rest,” Qurrah said. “No matter how hollow sleep feels lately.”

He and Tessanna turned back to the castle, leaving Velixar to stare at the preparing orc army.

Inwardly he groaned with anger. His priests were beginning another play for spiritual dominance. His paladins would soon be a battled-over trinket. Even worse, Ulamn’s warriors were scrambling for every possible way to diminish his importance in their conquest. His hold on power was tenuous at best, fleeting at worst.

“Give me strength,” he prayed aloud. “Aid me, Karak. I refuse to falter so close to the end.”

He waited for Karak’s cold voice reaffirming his role, his power, his faith. It never came, and Velixar cursed his weakness for needing it in the first place.

2

J erico stirred awake as the door opened and Tessanna stepped inside. His arms and legs grumbled with dull throbs of pain from the bonds around his wrists and ankles. His stomach growled, and he wondered how long it had been since he had a drink of water or a bit of food. He saw Tessanna’s hands empty and knew it would be even longer.

“Welcome back,” Jerico said. “I would stand to greet you, but…”

“Shut up.” Tessanna sat on the bed and stared at him. She was angry, although he could only guess why.

“Where’s your lover?” he asked. “Asleep again?”

“He needs rest,” she said. “And I said shut up.”

The paladin shrugged his shoulders, a motion that popped his back. He grunted at the pain. For a moment he rested his head on the stone and stared at the girl, who stared right back.

“Can I help you?” he finally asked.

“Why did you apologize?” she asked. “Tell me, honestly. I will know if you lie.”

“Lying’s not my style,” Jerico said. He glanced to the floor, then closed his eyes. “And I apologized because if anyone needs grace, it’s you.”

“Grace,” she said. “I don’t understand.”

“Most don’t.”

She stood, biting her lip and turning her back.

“You have no right to apologize for the deeds of another,” she said.

“I can still feel the shame, though,” he said. “And I can still wish it undone.”

“You wish to hurt me!” she suddenly shouted. Ice and fire sparked about her fingertips in a wild, random pattern. “You just want me to stop your torture.”

Jerico looked up at her face, her beautiful features etched with sadness.

“Believe what you want,” he said. “But I do not lie, and I do not fear your torture. Do what you need to do.”

There was no joy in her eyes, no temptation on her lips as she drew the knife. Without a word, she stabbed it into his gut. As he cried out in pain, she twisted the hilt.

“I forgive you,” he said as he felt his blood run down his abdomen. She yanked out the blade and stabbed it through his hands, pinning his palms to the floor. Tears filled his eyes, yet still he said those horrible words.

“I forgive you.”

She waved her hands, and a spell of silence overcame him. She could not hear his screams of pain, or his sobs, or even his breathing. She slashed his skin, thrust the knife into his stomach, and ran her fingers across his flesh, burning it with fire. She could not shut his eyes, though, and each time she met their gaze she heard his words in her head.

I forgive you.

She lashed out, furious at the audacity. People were not that good. No one was. She had felt the rough hands of too many, seen the deplorable and the despicable. With pure rage she assaulted him. Silent scream after silent scream died in his throat as she worked her knife like an artist. When she plunged it deep into his thigh she kissed him, drinking in his scream, but it did not have the tingle, the exhilaration, that she expected.

At last she fell back, the knife limp in her hands. She had hit nothing vital, and she knew the paladin was tough enough to survive. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Forgiveness,” she said, her voice quivering. “You think everyone deserves forgiveness?”

Jerico shook his head. He tried to speak, but the spell kept him silent. Tessanna wiped away her tears, remembering her father’s face. She remembered the way he used to look at her right after he was done. Like an animal, but worse. An animal that disgusted him, sickened him in a way no other animal could.

“You don’t live in my world,” she said. “You don’t live in any world. You forgive me, do you? We’ll see.”

At last apathy stole her away. She put away her weapon and licked the blood off her fingers.

“You taste good,” she said, a small smile creeping at the corner of her mouth. “And don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after. Until you break. I’ll fuck you until you hate me, Jerico. I promise you that.”

She left the room, still covered in his blood. He passed out soon after. When he dreamed, it was of darkness and blood. The darkness shrunk, and then he was swimming in shadows, and the darkness wasn’t darkness but Tessanna’s eyes.

Paladin…

Jerico moaned and turned, his dreams breaking.

Wake up, paladin.

“What now?” he murmured. In his head he heard Ashhur’s warning, strong and consistent. Danger was close, and powerful. He stirred, his gut sinking at sight of the man with the ever-changing face.

“First the girl, now you?” Jerico asked, closing his eyes and laying his head back on the floor. “Just use something different than a knife, will you? It’s getting old. Maybe a whip or an axe, something fun.”

“You’re a stubborn one,” Velixar said, standing over him with his arms crossed. “But of course, you’d have to be. You wouldn’t have survived so long if you weren’t. And faithful too, aren’t you? Very faithful.”

Jerico popped an eye open and looked at Velixar. “Is this an interrogation? If so, I think you’re supposed to be a little meaner, and ask better questions.”

“I will,” Velixar said. “But that leads to another question. Will you answer truthfully? To me, perhaps not, but to yourself? That is what interests me.”

A jagged fear burned Jerico’s heart, and suddenly he preferred the girl. She was wild, she was vicious, but she was filled with pain and confusion. Karak’s prophet, however, leered down at him with a strange look of desire and hunger.

“I know you have the innate ability to sense truth,” Velixar continued. “So when I say I never lie, you should know I mean it. Remember that.”

He began pacing the room, examining the curtains and bed sheets, all soft and silken.

“Do you think Ashhur has abandoned you?” Velixar asked as he rubbed fabric between two pale fingers.

“At all times he is by my side,” Jerico said.

“Even when Tessanna buried her knife in your flesh and carved into you like butcher’s meat?”

“Even then.”

Velixar laughed, and the sound made Jerico want to vomit.

“A sick god, wouldn’t you say?” Velixar asked. “One who would watch your torture, your pain, your seeping blood, and do nothing. Did he steal away your pain? Heal your wounds? Strike down your torturer? He just watched, didn’t he? An impotent god, powerless in this world.”

“Only a fool questions the wisdom of one infinitely wiser than he,” Jerico said, closing his eyes and trying to pray for strength and guidance, but the very presence of that man in black disturbed his prayers and made Ashhur seem distant.

“But you are a fool,” Velixar said. “Ashhur and Karak together made man, and both are seeking to rectify that mistake. What makes you sure an eternity of happiness awaits you? You are a failure, nothing more.”

“A failure made holy,” Jerico said. To this, Velixar laughed.

“Holy? You are a wretched pile of flesh and desires. Your thoughts race beyond your control. You think things you should not think, you do things you should not do. Do you honestly believe pretending to be holy will lead to actual holiness?”

The paladin did not answer. Velixar sensed weakness and closed in. He knelt beside Jerico and wrenched open his eyes with his bony fingers.

“You parade about as a man of good. How many have you killed? More than my paladins of Karak. If all life is sacred, how are you better? Hypocrite! Liar!”

Jerico felt anger boil in his chest. The anger was not just reserved for Velixar, but himself as well. He didn’t know what to say, how to counter. He had hid in the wilderness, avoiding civilization for years. He knew damn well he had killed more than he had brought into Ashhur’s fold.

“Ashhur has abandoned you,” Velixar said, his words salt in a newly-opened wound. “But all is not lost. You preach that Ashhur accepts you as you are, but then he demands change, sacrifice, pain and loss. Karak accepts you as you are, and then glorifies it. Your faults, your weaknesses, they are symptoms of humanity. Why should you be condemned by the very nature you were born into without choice?”

Silence followed, clobbering Jerico with its weight. He shook his head, wanting nothing more than Velixar’s fingers away from his face. Their touch was poison, death personified in a dark package. He opened his mouth to speak, but everything he’d say felt contrite.

“I trust Ashhur,” he said at last. “And I will until my death. I cannot answer you, but I don’t have to.”

“I told you already,” Velixar said, heading for the door. “It is not me you must answer. Cling to your unfounded trust, if that is all you can offer me and this world. We will move on without you, and leave you to rot in obsolescence.”

Karak’s prophet shut the door behind him with a loud thud. Jerico pushed his face to the cold stone and broke, his tears pouring down his face. He prayed for forgiveness for his doubt, but all the while he heard a nagging voice in the back of his head which told him again and again that he was alone.

3

L athaar followed the forest’s edge with aimless determination, only vaguely aware of its towering presence. Craggy, leafless branches grew tall and interlocked together, a natural gateway barring entrance into the gloomy dark within. Lathaar kept his swords sheathed, not for lack of enemies but for lack of caring. The ground was rocky and uneven with many roots breaking through the cold surface. He had hoped to remain alone; solitude was a treasure amid the thousands of displaced people of Veldaren. He was not granted his desire.

“A moping paladin,” Tarlak said, stepping out from a blue portal behind Lathaar. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

His yellow robes and hat seemed comical in the cold winter. His red beard flapped in the wind.

“I am in no mood,” said Lathaar. “Not today. Please, I need to be alone.”

“Don’t give me that,” Tarlak said. “What did you always tell me? ‘With Ashhur you are never alone?’”

“Yeah,” Lathaar said, smiling bitterly. When had he said that? While he was comfortable in Tarlak’s tower, safe and warm? “I say a lot of things.”

Tarlak sighed. They had camped for two days outside the Quellan forest, having had contact only once with the elves within. A single scout had promised to relay message of their desperate need for aid and council. Lathaar, normally a beacon of hope and strength, had sulked much of the time, turning away from any efforts to comfort. At last Mira had gone to Tarlak, begging for help, and the wizard was happy to oblige.

“I know Jerico was a friend,” Tarlak said. “And yeah, you do say a lot of things. You also say we mourn for our loss, not his. Jerico has gone to a better place. We both know that.”

“Do we?” Lathaar asked. He immediately looked to the ground, ashamed. “And of course I mourn for my loss. I have watched my brethren slaughtered, and when I am finally given hope, a friend who has also survived the struggle, that hope is torn and broken and slaughtered.”

“Pray for strength from Ashhur,” Tarlak said. “Pray to him, and…”

“And what?” Lathaar asked, cutting him off. “Hope? Cling to faith? What difference does it make if I wish upon a star or pray to Ashhur when the chance of an answer remains the same?”

“The difference is, the stars don’t love us,” Tarlak said. “Wallow in self-pity if you must. Those who love you await your return.”

The mage spun his hands and in a shimmering explosion of mist was gone. Lathaar shook his head, furious with himself. He felt similar to when the Citadel fell, sad and lost and lashing out at anything that once offered him comfort. He was foolish then, and he knew he was being foolish now.

“Forgive me, Tar,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. “Paladin or not, I’m still human.”

He heard the twang of a bow, but Ashhur offered no warning in his mind so he remained still. The arrow struck the ground by his foot, half the shaft burying into the dirt. Lathaar turned to the forest, where an elf in camouflage stood just within its border.

“Can you speak for the men of Neldar?” the elf asked in the human tongue.

“For most, yes,” Lathaar said.

“Whoever leads your rabble, tell them to prepare for an escort. They are to be unarmed, and no more than five. We will come at dawn. Is this acceptable?”

“It is,” Lathaar said.

The elf nodded, saluted with his bow, and vanished.

A n hour before the setting of the sun, the powerful leaders of the Veldaren refugees met to decide who the five would be. Antonil, former Guard Captain and newly named king, was the obvious choice. After a little prodding, Tarlak agreed to represent the Eschaton, his band of mercenaries, which had inflicted immeasurable damage against the invading army.

“I don’t want to go alone, though,” Tarlak said. “I’d prefer a friendlier, and prettier, face.” He pointedly glanced at the beautiful elf sitting beside him.

“Flattered,” Aurelia said. “But don’t hold any illusions. I will have very little sway.”

“At least we’ll have someone who speaks their tongue,” Antonil said. “I agree with Tarlak. Aurelia should go as well.”

“If we are to continue aiding you, then I go as well,” Deathmask said. He was the leader of the Ash Guild, a band of thieves that had saved hundreds from roving packs of wolf-men. “I promise to behave.”

“Lathaar,” Tarlak said, bringing everyone’s attention to the paladin. “You’ve already told the elves once you can speak for men. As one of the few here who has traveled outside of Veldaren, will you agree to go?”

Lathaar nodded. “I will.”

“That is the five,” Antonil said. “Any complaints?”

“I would prefer to go with you, my king,” Sergan said. With Antonil’s crowning he was the new leader of the human soldiers. “Who knows what treachery these elves are planning?”

“If elves are planning treachery,” Haern said, polishing his sabers as he huddled underneath his gray cloaks, “then I would prefer it be my sabers, not your axe, guarding the king.”

“Actually,” Aurelia said. “I ask that Harruq may be at my side.”

Many, especially those of the Ash Guild, gave her the strangest of looks.

“March a half-orc into an elven forest?” Deathmask asked. “You must be insane.”

Harruq, who had remained silent through much of the deliberation, had to agree.

“They’ve not exactly taken a liking to me before,” Harruq said. “I don’t want to ruin anyone’s chances for aid.”

“Ashhur knows we need it,” Lathaar muttered.

“Aurelia, care to explain yourself?” Antonil asked.

The elf only shook her head. “I will not enter without Harruq at my side. If you wish me to go, he goes as well.”

“Is it that important to you?” Tarlak asked. She turned to him, and her look made it clear it was. “So be it. I’ll toss my vote in for the big lug. We need a brute to ruin delicate diplomatic matters, otherwise it just isn’t a party.”

“Achieving delicacy through brute idiocy,” Deathmask said, standing from his seat beside the fire. “I wonder if the unpredictable reputation your Eschaton carry with them fails to describe your nature.”

“I always dreamed of having the people of Veldaren think us insane,” Tarlak said. “Alas, we saved too many lives and captured too many of your ilk to earn the title.”

“Enough,” Antonil said. “If Harruq is to go, one of us must not.”

“I’m going,” Deathmask said. “As long as you desire the aid of my guild, that is.”

“I’m certainly not leaving you unattended, Deathmask,” Tarlak said. “I’d hate for you to melt the face off some elven diplomat.”

“I will stay behind,” Lathaar said. “My heart is not in such matters. It will do me better to remain among the people.”

“So be it,” Antonil said. “Meet here again as the sun sets, and hold your tongues far better than you do now. Is that clear?”

“Of course,” Deathmask said, bowing. He and his guild turned and left, Antonil and his guards following suit. The Eschaton remained by the fire, Tarlak crossing his arms and shaking his head.

“For how crazy-headed he is, you’d think he’d learn to roll with the situation,” Tarlak muttered.

“What is with that guy?” Harruq asked. “I’ve never heard of him and his odd little buddies.”

“The Ash Guild,” Haern said, running his fingers through his hair. “Possibly the most dangerous combination of intelligence and power I’ve ever seen, no offense Tar.”

“Some taken,” Tarlak said.

“Little over a year ago Deathmask entered the Ash Guild, one of the weaker guilds,” Haern continued. “The protection money offered from the nobles was filtered throughout the entire guild, so naturally, the fewer the members, the more coin for all. Deathmask sought out a few ambitious rogues to side with him, then made it clear to the rest that it would be best to move on.”

“I take it he killed them all?” Harruq asked..

“Some,” Haern said. “Many voluntarily left, preferring poverty to death. Those higher up did their best to assassinate him, but failed. In less than six months he had gutted the entire guild and taken command.”

“This sort of thing happens every now and then,” Tarlak said, taking off his hat and scratching self-inflicted bald spot on his head from when he dropped a fireball at his feet during battle. “But those five… wow. Normally other guilds would assault such a weakened guild, but any that tried lost member after member. They had to stop lest they appear vulnerable. The Ash Guild became far richer than the others, and just as dangerous. I’m sure we have members of other guilds amid our merry band, but they were just street rats, ruffians.”

“You said five,” Aurelia asked. “I’ve only seen four.”

“They must have lost someone in the fight at Veldaren,” Harruq said. “Might explain why they’re helping us. They’re getting even with whoever killed their friend.”

“Perhaps,” Tarlak said. “I’m sure Deathmask hopes to set up shop in Mordan if we reach it. They’ve been kind enough to aid us, but make no mistake, they can be downright evil if it suits their needs. But enough chat. I need to be presentable for our lovely hosts. And you too, Harruq. Try not to look like a slob. The entire race of orcs is relying on you.”

“I’ll make sure to let them down,” Harruq said.

Aurelia swatted him on the head, then kissed where she had hit him.

“You know I love you,” she said. “But for once in your life, please, try to behave.”

B ehave, Harruq thought as he stood in his freshly cleaned armor, his swords missing from his belt, their absence an uncomfortable distraction. Just behave.

“Keep your mouth shut so you won’t do anything foolish,” Tarlak offered as they waited by the forest’s edge. “And if they ask you a question, think, what would Tarlak say?”

“If it’s a pretty elven lass, he’d ask where her room was and if he was invited,” Harruq said, ignoring Aurelia’s hard elbow to his side.

“How about, would Aurelia hurt me if I say this?” Aurelia said.

“A significantly wiser suggestion,” said Deathmask.

“Aurelia, I know you are of Dezren blood, but will any within know you by name?” Antonil asked. He was dressed in his crown and armor, fidgeting nervously.

“Pray they do not,” Aurelia said. “But yes, I believe some will.”

Before any could ask what she meant, a horn blew from within the forest. It seemed the trees themselves bent out of way as a hundred elves marched in perfect formation from within. They carried giant bows on their backs and gleaming long swords in their hands. Leading the way was an elf in flowing green and blue robes.

“Greetings, humans of the north,” he said, his melodic voice effortlessly carrying across the hills. “Bring your kings and champions forth that I might escort them to Quellassar.”

The five stepped forward, Antonil leading. The messenger bowed before them, and the one hundred raised their swords and saluted.

“Come,” the messenger said. “Follow me, and do not worry about your step. The trees will ensure no root or rock will bother you.”

They did as they were told while all around them the elven troops formed a perfect rectangle.

“Fancy shmancy stuff,” Harruq whispered to Aurelia.

He grunted, his comment clearly failing the will Aurelia hit me test.

Their path was far from straight. Harruq counted at least three full circles. The elves wanted their city hidden, though Harruq failed to see a need for such secrecy. If anyone tried sneaking through the wood unnoticed they’d have arrows covering every inch of their body. Judging by the looks the elven soldiers gave him as they marched, he thought he was close to that already.

The messenger gave quick commands to his visitors as he led them on.

“You will not leave the group.” They passed an enormous tree whose trunk looked wide enough for three horses abreast to ride through. “You will not speak to commoner or soldier, or advisors to the Neyvar.”

“Neyvar?” Harruq whispered.

“King,” Aurelia whispered back.

“Who’s their king?” he asked.

“Neyvar Ceredon Sinistel,” their messenger and guide answered, his sharp ears hearing the whisper with ease. “Warmaster of the Ekreissar, a true warrior if there ever was one. He has made truces with kings, both man and elf, and he is due your utmost respect, if not your silence.”

“Sorry I asked,” Harruq muttered.

The trail through the woods widened into a well-traveled road. The soldiers about them tensed. Only Aurelia knew why. It was a rare event for outsiders to enter the elven city, and no matter the terms, there was always the chance that Ceredon decided them a threat. Arrows, accurate and deadly, might await their entrance.

The trees suddenly parted, and stretching up and out in brilliant majesty were the three towers of Quellassar.

“Spank me silly,” Harruq said, his mouth hanging open.

Grown from seeds supposedly blessed by Celestia’s own hand, three enormous trees stretched far beyond the surrounding canopy, twisting higher and higher, as if reaching for the very heavens. Along their branches the elves had built homes, ladders, walkways and stairs. Harruq recognized the style from the elven homes of Woodhaven, where the walls and roofs curved and slanted as if a straight line went against nature’s desire. He craned his neck, his stomach twisting at the idea of climbing anywhere near the top.

“Where are we headed?” he dared ask. “It’s low to the ground, right?”

“You will not climb any of the three sisters,” their guide said. “Ceredon has agreed to come to ground to speak with you. I hope you appreciate such an amazing honor.”

The soldiers herded them to a large building beside the westernmost tree. It looked like a single room, perhaps a great meeting hall. Antonil slid in between Harruq and Aurelia as they walked, whispering as quietly as he could.

“Ceredon Sinistel,” he said, pronouncing the name as if in awe. “He arranged the truce at Woodhaven. He’s fought in every Horde War. Some even say…”

“He was there,” Aurelia said, interrupting him. “At the arrival of the gods, and the creation of man. He was there. Pay him respect. If any being in our world deserves it, it’s him.”

The five entered the giant room, and indeed it was a meeting hall. Flanked by guards in shining armor stood an elf, his skin pale and aged. He wore a crown of silver on his head. His polished armor shimmered with magic. At his hip hung a long, curved blade covered with magical runes. His eyes were a deep blue, and though everything about him was old, those eyes were young, vibrant and penetrating. His hair had grayed, though a bit of brown still gave it hue. The entire room was empty, lacking benches or a podium. Their footsteps echoed within, their voices carrying a sudden weight that unnerved them. The messenger bowed low, then gestured to the five.

“I bring you the leaders of the humans that camp at our borders,” he said.

“What are your names?” Ceredon asked. His voice was deep, earthy and tired.

At first they hesitated, glancing at each other with uncertainty. Finally Antonil stepped forward and knelt.

“I am Antonil Copernus, King of Neldar,” he said.

“King?” Ceredon asked. “The only king I know of is Edwin Vaelor, a foul insult to the dead kings of old. Have you claimed his throne, human?”

“He would not accept the fate, nor the responsibility, of his people and his land,” Antonil said. “He was murdered during the assault upon Veldaren, and with a heavy heart I have taken his crown.”

Ceredon nodded. He seemed puzzled by Antonil but let the matter drop. Up next stepped Tarlak, who removed his hat and bowed low, hoping no one would notice the bald spot atop his head.

“Tarlak Eschaton, leader of the Eschaton mercenaries,” he said. “With me are Harruq and Aurelia Tun, fellow members. We are honored to be in your presence.”

“And him,” Ceredon asked, gesturing to Deathmask.

“I am Deathmask,” he said. “I lead the Ash Guild.”

“I have heard of your guilds and mercenaries,” Ceredon said, crossing his arms. Harruq noticed how his hands casually rested on the hilt of his sword. “An interesting group, the lot of you. But to the task at hand. You have come to my land and camped outside my forest. Your great city is in shambles. What is it you desire from us?”

“We seek aid,” Antonil said. “Food and clothing so we may survive the cold winter. We trek to Omn, and we humbly ask for any help you may offer.”

Ceredon shook his head in a sad, sorrowful gesture.

“The Dezren elves fled their burned, ruined lands. Humans did not give them time nor aid in crossing the rivers. Did your king offer aid when they settled here? No. Humans ignored elves, yet now humans come asking aid from elves?”

Antonil frowned. He thought of what to say, but knew it would sound trite.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I offer no justification. No excuses. Just a desperate plea to save my people.”

“Your people,” Ceredon said, chuckling. He approached the king, staring eye to eye with him. “Are they your people? What of my people? Food and water do not come free, not even to us. Do I forget their losses? Their wounds? Their honor?”

“A simple yes or no would suffice,” Deathmask said. Harruq stared at him in shock, almost expecting Aurelia to elbow him.

Ceredon stepped back, not appearing insulted or upset, only tired. Elves grabbed Deathmask by the arms, who shook his head and chuckled.

“Lead on,” he said. When he was gone, Harruq glanced to Aurelia, who only shrugged.

“There is more going on here,” Ceredon said, turning away from them and walking back to his guards. “Isn’t that right, Lady Thyne?”

“Karak’s servants have taken the city,” Aurelia said. “And forgive me, but it is Tun, not Thyne.”

She grabbed Harruq’s hand and squeezed it tight. Harruq held on, his eyes bouncing between the two elves.

“Tun,” Ceredon said. “Such an ugly name. You fight alongside these humans?”

“I do,” she answered.

“After the sacrifice your parents made?” Ceredon asked. “After their blood, their magic, and their lives, you marry a man of orc blood and side with men who took their lives?”

“My life is my own,” Aurelia said.

“And your parents' honor is theirs. I miss them greatly, Lady Thyne. But for you to arrive married to cursed blood is an insult I am almost tempted to rectify.”

“Am I missing something?” Tarlak asked.

“No,” Aurelia said, shaking her head. “I will not listen to this. Forgive me, Neyvar, but I was there. I suffered in the cold. I journeyed with our people, not you. I can forgive who I wish, love who I wish, and I bring dishonor to my father and mother only in the eyes of those blinded by hatred.”

Tarlak’s mouth hung open. Guards moved to grab her and Harruq, but Ceredon waved them off.

“She has always carried a reputation of a fiery spirit,” he told them. “Leave her be. So Karak has destroyed the city of humans. So be it. It is not our matter, the quarreling between the brother gods.”

“But it is,” Antonil said. “For we have failed what we were always sworn to protect.”

At these words Ceredon stopped. His eyes narrowed, and his hand clenched the hilt of his sword.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The portal’s been reopened,” Tarlak said. “War demons flood into this world. Celestia’s protection is broken. Even your people are no longer safe.”

The elderly elf stared, his upper lip quivering with anger. Before he could respond, a messenger arrived, announcing the arrival of an honored guest. Aurelia visibly brightened as Dieredon followed, his bow slung on his back. He seemed surprised by their presence but hid it well.

“It is as we feared,” Dieredon said after bowing. “Orcs swarm north and west from Veldaren. Soldiers in crimson armor bearing the yellow fist have appeared, hailing from no known nation. Karak’s hand, I am sure of it.”

“Leave us,” Ceredon said to the visitors. “I will decide soon. You will be given accommodations until then.”

The guards escorted them out, leaving Dieredon and Ceredon alone in the great hall. Ceredon drew his sword, spun in a blinding whir of steel, and then thrust it into the stone floor. The loud crack echoed from wall to wall.

“They’ve doomed this world,” Ceredon said. “All through the frailty of human flesh.”

“It is my fault,” Dieredon said. “I should have tracked their assault. I thought the orcs’ numbers too small. Karak’s prophet rallied not just orcs, though. Bird-men, wolf-men, hyena-men, all under his banner.”

“Our priests talk of Celestia’s daughters,” Ceredon said. “They say two of them walk this land. What is happening, friend? How did we fail so miserably?”

“We failed because of inaction,” Dieredon said. “We failed because we have always watched, always waited, and always judged the cost. Give me the might of the Ekreissar. We can assault while their army is unaware.”

“You are rash and bloodthirsty,” Ceredon said, shaking his head. “I will not send so many valiant elves to die in vain. If you’d aid the humans, then go with them. Fight at their side. I will not stop you.”

“It is not that easy.”

“It never is, nor should it be.” Ceredon yanked his sword free. “We have lost much because of their hatred and fear.”

“Are we so free of it ourselves?” Dieredon asked. The words hung in the air amid a heavy silence.

“Give them food and blankets,” Ceredon said. “Travel with their king. As for our troops…”

The Neyvar sheathed his sword. “If war approaches then I will protect our home. Send word to Nellassar of what has happened. We must all prepare.”

The elderly elf turned and left. Alone, Dieredon cursed to the ceiling before storming after.

“W hat was that all about?” Harruq asked after they’d been relocated to their lodgings. They had been given three rooms, Deathmask by his lonesome, Antonil and Tarlak in a second, Harruq and Aurelia the third.

“It’s nothing,” Aurelia said, leaning her staff against the bed. “Just ancient history.”

“Doesn’t sound so ancient to me,” Harruq said. “Who were your parents? What did Ceredon mean by all of that?”

Aurelia sat on the bed, her face turned away from him. Her long hair masked her features, but Harruq could still see the faint edges of a frown on her delicate face.

“Is it really that important?” she asked.

Harruq winced, hurt by the tone. He started the lengthy process of undoing the buckles of his armor, pointedly putting his back to her.

“You hardly talk about your past,” he said. “Every time I bring it up, you brush me aside. You’re my wife, hon, and if you’re hurting because of it, I want to know. I want to help you…”

Soft hands grabbed his own, halting his harsh tugging at the leather straps. He felt Aurelia lean her head against his shoulder.

“I was still young, for an elf,” she said. “Everywhere we went, the fires followed. Forests, grasslands, even the deep caves filled with smoke and ash. King Baedan knew we would win a war of soldiers, but our homes…”

She wrapped her arms tight about him.

“I killed so many. They didn’t send soldiers, but farmers, hungry vagabonds, even criminals. They gave them torches and oil and let them burn. It had been a dry summer, Harruq. I’m not sure you’ve ever seen how fast a forest can burn, but I have. Breathtaking, and horrifying.”

Harruq turned around, his hands encircling her waist. She refused to meet his gaze, but that was fine with him. He could see the tears in her eyes, her haunted face a thousand memories away.

“At last we fled, thousands of us. Dezerea, our beloved home, was ash. And that was when King Baedan finally ordered in his troops. He didn’t want us gone, he wanted us dead, never to return. Hundreds of horseman crashed through our ranks. We’d kill them, but they’d be replaced by hundreds more. At last we made it to the Corinth River, the border between Mordan and Ker.”

Harruq gently guided his wife to the bed, where the two sat side by side, his arm over her shoulder. She tilted her head against him. He could hardly believe the sadness he felt pouring out of her. How long had he been completely unaware?

“What about your parents?” he asked when her silence stretched so long he thought she might not continue.

“Magic in elves is heavily based on bloodline, not trained like with humans,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “If either parent could cast spells, so could the child. We were never numerous, just enough to watch over nature and guide her growth. My parents were both casters, the strongest of our race. When we reached the Corinth Bridge, they demanded to stay behind along with eight others. We knew Baedan would have his troops follow us, no matter how far we fled. His entire army marched after us, ten thousand strong. Against those ten thousand, my parents made their stand.”

“Ten against ten thousand?” Harruq said. “No matter how strong they were, they had to know…”

“They did.” Aurelia said. “They knew. And they crushed more than two thousand soldiers before they fell, and slowed down their movements for days. It was enough for us to get away, to find our new home.” She sniffed. “They renamed it the Bloodbrick Bridge afterward. I wanted to stay, nearly demanded it, but they refused. I was one of the few remaining with the touch of magic. They thought it my duty to preserve it.”

Harruq hugged her as she fell silent once more. Her breathing turned slow and heavy, and he knew she was struggling to hold back tears.

“Their names?” he asked. “What were your parents’ names?”

“Kindren Thyne was my father’s name,” she said. “And Aullienna was my mother’s.”

At the sound of that name she broke, clutching at Harruq with a desperate strength as she sobbed. Harruq held her, tears in his own eyes.

“It’s been a long year,” he said. “But we’ll make it, Aurry, we’ll make it.”

“I miss our baby so much,” Aurelia said. “How she laughed, how she walked, how she, how she…”

She couldn’t finish. Too many memories, so many of them good. The way little Aullienna cried, the way she crawled, the way she giggled every morning inside her crib, as if her entire world lit up at the sight of her mother. All lost. All stolen by a cold stream and Qurrah’s madness.

“I miss her too,” Harruq said. “But we’ll be all right.”

Deep inside, he hoped that was true.

T arlak muttered as he heard someone calling his name. Too early, he thought. Way too early.

“Wake up. Six hours is more than enough sleep,” Dieredon said, nudging the mage with his bow.

“For you maybe,” Tarlak grumbled, burying his face in a pillow. “What do you want?” he asked.

“My scouts have returned from all corners of Neldar,” Dieredon said, jabbing Tarlak harder. The wizard looked up and glared with bloodshot eyes.

“Fascinating,” he said. “Tell me later.”

“Orcs march from Veldaren carrying the banner of Karak, but they do not chase after your refugees. There are several castles that might stand against them, if spurred into action. Both Kinamn and the Green Castle might prove powerful enough if warned in time. At worst, they must flee west with the rest of the Neldaren people.”

Tarlak sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes with his forefingers.

“What does this have to do with me?” he asked.

“I am Scoutmaster of the Quellan elves,” Dieredon said. “It is my duty to contain the orcs at all cost. But I cannot be in two places at once. Lend me your Eschaton. We can sound the alarm, and perhaps strike down many of the orcs before they can reinforce from the Vile Wedge.”

“What of my people?” Antonil asked, having been awake the entire time. Dieredon shrugged.

“Neyvar Sinistel will give them food, blankets and means for shelter. It will take a day or two to prepare, but you are weeks of travel ahead of the war demons. They will be fine without the Eschaton.”

“Much as I’d like to rest,” Tarlak said, “I find it hard to turn down a chance to get back at those who destroyed my home. When do we leave?”

“Now,” Dieredon said. “Wake the others. I will escort you back to your camp, and then we will be off.”

“Yes sir, boss elf, sir,” Tarlak said, offering a sleepy, off-balanced bow.

Dieredon left with a sigh.

As Tarlak prepared, Antonil stood and stretched, showing a bit of life that hadn’t been there the night before.

“They will help us,” he said. “Praise Ashhur, they’ll help us.”

“Try not to get too excited,” Tarlak said. “It’s just some food and blankets. They’re not going to war to protect us. They’re not offering escorts or troops.”

“They’re offering aid,” Antonil said, strapping on his belt and sword. “For now, that is enough.”

“I’ll go wake the others,” Tarlak said. “Let’s get the fun started!”

D ieredon didn’t bother with the twisting, looping pathways out of the forest. Instead, he led them in a straight path that took them directly to their camp.

“Ready your Eschaton,” he told them. “We leave in one hour.”

At the sight of their return, people swarmed toward them. With a bit of help from Tarlak, Antonil levitated into the air and spoke with a magically-enhanced voice.

“People of Neldar!” he shouted. “The elves will aid us! They will give us food and blankets as we travel west. We will not give up, and we will not surrender to the demons that give chase. Hold fast! Hope still lives!”

All around, hope kindled, weak but growing.

“Good speech, nice and short,” Tarlak said as he levitated Antonil back to the ground.

“Never been one for long speeches,” the king said.

The Eschaton and the Ash Guild met together shortly after, with Tarlak discussing Dieredon’s plan.

“Let me make sure everyone understands this,” Deathmask said after Tarlak was done. “This elf wants to send us to where we just came from, to the Green Castle tucked between the Kingstrip and the Vile Wedge, hopelessly surrounded by enemies?”

“Well, I’d prefer a bit cheerier spin on it than that, but yeah, that’s the idea,” Tarlak said.

“We’re all exhausted,” Harruq said. “This really a good idea?”

“If we can save more lives, we must,” Lathaar said. “I don’t see much of a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Deathmask said. “Whether you wish there is or not. We put everyone here at risk if we leave. We are followed by winged armies. How fast might they reach us?”

“Pretty risky leaving,” Mier said.

“Risky indeed,” Nien said.

“Well, then it is a good thing Dieredon invited just my Eschaton, and not the Ash Guild,” Tarlak said to the twins. “I figured I’d extend the offer on his behalf, but I should have known better.”

“You’re right, you should,” Deathmask said. “But you have fun running off to die. We’ll be here doing your job protecting the people.”

Deathmask, Veliana, and the twins left, so only the Eschaton and Antonil remained at their meeting.

“Such a happy bunch,” Harruq muttered.

“Forget them,” the king said. “Something weighs on my mind. I originally thought to follow the road northwest, straight to Kinamn. But with the supplies we’ve been given, I’m starting to wonder if that is our wisest path.”

“Seems smart to me,” said Harruq. “It’s a big city, right? Should have plenty of soldiers and supplies. There should be plenty to join us as we head for Mordan.”

“That’s the thing,” said Antonil. “I fear we’d lose more than we’d gain.”

“Too many will stay,” Haern said, realizing what the king meant. “They’re tired, hungry and scared. They’d rather be within walls than continue on.”

“Kinamn isn’t near as strong as Veldaren was,” Aurelia said. “It’ll fall. Anyone who stays is doomed.”

“Which is why I think I will take my people directly west, toward the bridges,” said Antonil. “Bypassing Kinamn completely.”

“That won’t be a popular decision,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

“I do what is best for my people, whether they agree or not. I am still their king.”

“Then we must send someone else to Kinamn,” Harruq said. “We’ve got to warn them, get the people to leave before the demons arrive.”

“We’ll handle it then,” said Tarlak. “Good luck on your travels, my liege. You’re going to need it.”

Antonil shook his head and punched the wizard in the shoulder.

“How will we travel after the orcs?” Haern asked as the king left. “By portal or by land?”

“To be honest… I don’t know,” Tarlak said. “Guess we’ll leave that up to Dieredon.

Turned out it was neither. Dieredon landed on the outskirts of the camp riding beautiful Sonowin, his winged-horse. A second landed with him, lacking a rider.

“Aw, no,” Harruq said as Dieredon dismounted. “Come on! We’re gonna get tossed, I know it.”

“Shut up,” Aurelia said, slipping her arms around his elbow. “It’ll be fun, trust me.”

“You know how to make an entrance,” Tarlak said to Dieredon as a crowd gathered round. “But I see only two horses, and I’ve got six of us ready to go.”

“Sonowin and Seleven can each handle three,” Dieredon said, patting his horse on the neck. “Any more and we will lose too much time.”

The members of the Eschaton gathered, and the elf glanced about, trying to decide what to do since there were now seven.

“I won’t go,” Mira said. She recognized the hard look he gave her. She’d seen it many times on the faces of the elves that visited her when guarding Elfspire. Dieredon knew what she was, and knew she was dangerous.

“It might be better for you to guard the people here,” the elf said, glancing to Tarlak for confirmation.

“Guess someone should keep an eye on Deathmask,” said the wizard, shrugging. That decided, the elf divided the remaining five by weight.

“Tarlak and the paladin will go with me,” he said. “Aurelia, Haern and your husband travel with you.”

Tarlak told him their plan of splitting into two groups, which Dieredon quickly approved.

“My three will go to Kinamn,” he said. “You take Seleven and head to the Hillock to warn the Green Castle. Once you finish, we’ll be waiting for you.”

“So be it,” Tarlak said. He looked at Sonowin, who nodded and snorted at him. “How do I get on?”

“Carefully,” was Dieredon’s reply.

He gave Aurelia the reins to Seleven, since the horse could understood commands given in elvish. Given the weight of the three, Harruq didn’t think it possible for them to fly. When Seleven’s giant wings stretched out, pushing them into the air with enormous strength, he thought differently. He clutched Aurelia’s waist and held on for dear life as behind him Haern grabbed his arms and grinned.

“I’ve always wanted to ride one of these,” Haern shouted into Harruq’s ear as they soared higher. Harruq just rolled his eyes as he shivered in the chill air.

“That’s because you’re insane,” he shouted back.

“He’s not insane,” Aurelia said, hearing their exchange. “I can show you insane.”

She leaned forward and whispered. Seleven suddenly banked toward the ground, wings pulled tight against his sides. As trees and hills rapidly approached, Harruq screamed for her to stop while Haern let out a joyous scream. A tug on the reins and out went the wings, and mere feet above the ground they banked and spun. Harruq felt his meager breakfast grumbling in his stomach. He turned to one side and vomited, all while cursing elves and their modes of transport. Never again, he thought, would he grumble about the disorienting effect of a portal.

Laughing, Aurelia guided them back to the sky, where they could see Sonowin flying northwest. In the distance, they could barely see a yellow-robed arm waving at them.

“Good to know Tar’s having fun,” Harruq muttered as they flew north.

M ira watched them go, her hands clasped at her chest. Part of her wanted to go, to be where her magic was most useful. But as her hands traced the dagger scar, she shuddered at the thought of meeting Tessanna again.

“You’ve shattered your mirror,” she whispered in the cold noon air. “But that won’t be enough for you, will it? Not until I’m gone. Not until you’ve won.”

She prayed to Celestia, just as Evermoon had taught her. On both knees, she put her face to the sky, her eyes closed, her mouth shut. She let her fears, her sadness and her shame lift to the heavens. She did not expect a reply, but she was given one, and it startled her with its clarity.

I am not done with this world, she heard Celestia say. If one prison is to break, then so shall the other. Let this world give me a sign. Faith amid disaster. Hope amid ruin. Stay strong, daughter of mine. You are not forgotten.

Mira opened her eyes, tears filling them.

“Not forgotten,” she whispered. “But still alone.”

Exhausted, she wandered back to the fires of the camp, desperately craving warmth.

4

J erico stretched to pass the time. Tessanna had bound his ankles and wrists with rope, and after a few hours of pulling and scraping them against sharp corners in the room, he was certain of their magical enchantment. So he stretched, lying flat and lifting his feet into the air, or switching to his stomach and arching his back while twisting his elbows. He didn’t know if he’d have a chance to escape, but if one presented itself, he was determined to be ready. The last thing he needed were cramps while running for his life.

The stretching also kept him warm, something that had become an obsession. The castle was freezing, and all he had were the remnants of his armor. They did a poor job holding in heat. He found rolling on the floor helped a bit, as did his stretches. At one point he had pulled the blankets off the nearby bed and curled up inside them, but Tessanna would have none of that. She had ignited the blanket while he was still wrapped inside. His face and hands itched from the burns. Scratching them had also become an obsession, one he fought as best he could.

All this was a wonderful distraction from thinking about what really frightened him: what Tessanna or Velixar might do whenever they arrived.

The door opened, and Jerico grunted.

“Be you woman or dead thing?” he asked, not bothering to look.

“Woman,” Tessanna said. “And get up. We’re leaving, so I have a task for you.”

He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I’m in the working mood. What help can I be anyway, unless you have something that needs rolled across? Then I’m all for it.”

Tessanna snapped her fingers. The bonds slackened, and with a grunt of pleasure Jerico freed his wrists and ankles.

“That’s a step in the right direction,” he said.

“You’ll be taking far more than one,” Tessanna said, smirking.

“Excuse me?”

She didn’t answer, instead grabbing him by the throat and pulling him out to the courtyard. There he found his task waiting for him: a small wooden carriage. Tessanna stepped inside, then gestured to the thick ropes attached to the front.

“I made it just for you,” she said.

“You’re too kind.” Jerico crossed his arms and shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m not pulling you anywhere.”

“Yes, you are,” Tessanna said. “Unless you want to bleed out your eyes, you’ll do as I say.”

The paladin prayed to Ashhur, searching for the right answer. No matter what he did, she would torture him. Perhaps it was time to be practical.

“So be it,” he said. “If this is my burden, then I will bear it, but I will bear it silently.”

He walked over to the ropes and stooped down. Tessanna frowned.

“Take off your armor,” she said. “And your shirt.”

Jerico shrugged. Without a word he cast aside the rest of his armor, followed by the undershirt. He shivered in the cold. At the sight of his muscled chest, Tessanna shivered as well. The paladin grabbed the ropes, wrapped them around his arms, and then waited. Tessanna stepped inside the carriage, giggling at the thought of herself as some royal princess. She was dressed as one, and she bedded a warlord. Perhaps it wasn’t that much of a stretch.

A few blankets rested upon the bench in the carriage, which Tessanna wrapped around herself. “Take us outside the city,” she said. “I wish to see my lover.”

Jerico acknowledged her by tensing his muscles and stepping forward. The carriage creaked a bit, but as he took another step, the wheels ceased their grinding. He took another, his task growing easier as the carriage gained momentum. They rolled down the street, straight for the southern exit. They passed by demon soldiers and the tested, and he felt shame claw at his gut as they stared. He fought it down. He would not feel shame, he told himself. Not from the looks given by fanatics and war demons.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Tessanna asked him. He said nothing. She crinkled her nose as she realized what he was doing.

“Stop being such a child,” she said. “Your tantrum will accomplish nothing.” Still, he remained quiet. The girl with blackest eyes glanced about, and she saw the whispering among the Karak faithful. They knew what Jerico was, she realized. They stared at him with mindless anger. Tessanna bit her lip, suddenly uncomfortable. She was better than them, she told herself. They hated Jerico because they were told to. She hated him for the hypocrisy he represented, for the hurt his kind had done to her. Hers was not mindless. She looked at the rippling muscles of his back as he pulled her and wondered. What might be if, just perhaps, her hatred really was mindless, and therefore could be cast aside…?

“What nonsense is this?” a raspy voice asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Oh, Qurrah,” she said, smiling down at her lover. Jerico had stopped just beyond the southern gate, where Qurrah stood with arms crossed, a frown on his face.

The half-orc gestured to the carriage. “A unique mode of travel,” he said.

“I am a pregnant woman,” Tessanna said, pulling her blankets tighter around her. “Did you think I would walk, or risk the bucking of a horse?”

“I suppose,” Qurrah said, eyeing the paladin with disdain. “But what of this horse? What happens if he bucks the reins?”

“Then I buck him back,” she said, giggling. Qurrah was not amused.

“He is dangerous,” he said. Jerico smirked at this.

“We will be fine,” Tessanna insisted.

“Many want him dead, Tess,” Qurrah said. “Be careful.”

“When am I not?” she asked. She clicked her tongue, and onward Jerico pulled them.

Hours later, he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. His whole body shivered. His exposed skin was a bright, angry red. Above him the stars shone bright, a meager comfort. Pulling Tessanna through the city had been one thing, but across the hard earth and dying grass was another matter. His arms felt ready to fall off, and the center of his back screamed in agony. Most of his face and extremities were numb. He’d give anything for a fire to curl before, but he doubted he’d get one. Tessanna was punishing him.

“Come now,” she said, climbing out of her carriage. “You think you can hurt me with silence? Disturb me somehow?”

Velixar’s army stretched for half a mile all around them. Almost a thousand undead marched under his command, forming two columns on either side. The tested marched between, singing worship to Karak. Within them marched the war demons, preferring the ground over the biting air. They were in no hurry. The world was already theirs. They just needed to claim it.

One by one, tents popped up about the camp and fires roared to life. Jerico stared at a fire in the distance, wondering if he could throw himself in before Tessanna stopped him.

“I wonder,” Tessanna said as she drew out a knife, “just how sensitive your skin is right now. It looks numb, but maybe…”

She ran the tip across his shoulder to the back of his neck. He tensed, waiting for the stab, but none came.

“Tessanna,” he heard Qurrah say. The dagger left his neck.

“Yes, lover?” she asked.

He glanced around to see Qurrah shivering in his robes.

“Come,” the half-orc said. “I need your warmth by the fire.”

“Ruin all my fun,” she said, but she was smiling. She tucked the knife into her sash and knelt beside the paladin. “Some other night,” she whispered before kissing his scarred cheek. He jolted at her touch. Qurrah darkened visibly, but kept his rage in check. He took his lover in his arms and guided them back to his fire.

Still naked from the waist up, Jerico closed his eyes and did his best to pray as the temperature slowly fell. If he was lucky, he thought, the cold would take him in the night, without pain or torture. As Qurrah and Tessanna made love by the fire, Jerico heard the soft, quiet voice of Ashhur. It offered no warning, no promises, nothing intelligible. But it was there, and that comfort was enough.

A sharp pain to his gut woke him halfway through the night. Through blurry vision he saw several people standing around him, wearing faded robes of brown and gray. The stars glittered high in the sky.

“Get up,” one said. “Get up and defend yourself.”

Another sharp pain pierced his gut. Two more spiked his back. They were kicking him, his groggy mind realized. Why were they kicking him? A heel crushed his ear, waking the nerves within. He grunted in pain, then pushed away the foot. He sat up, brushing away his long red hair and glared at his harassers.

“Karak has given us gifts,” one of them said, holding up his new hands. “And we plan to show our gratitude.”

Jerico’s stomach heaved at the sight. All around him were the tested, and new hands had grown to replace their old, lost pairs. Bones protruded out the stubs of flesh that had been their wrists, locking together into fleshless, nerveless fingers. Soft whiffs of smoke rose from the bones, so that when they swung their hands they left faint trails that slowly dissipated.

“Defend yourself, paladin,” one of the tested said. “State your faith so we may kill you with dignity.”

Jerico stood, his head sagging and his arms limp. He smirked at the fanatical men and women around him.

“Will you not say anything?” another asked. “Or have you lost your faith?”

Jerico tilted his head to one side, grunting as his neck popped. Then he lashed out, grabbing his first accuser’s head with both hands. Before the others could react, he smashed his knee into the man’s face, shattering his nose and splattering them both with blood. He used the body as a barrier, shoving him aside as he lunged for the nearby carriage. He had a hunch about Tessanna, and seeing his shield on the carriage floor confirmed it. He hooked his arm through the tethers and spun about.

The tested screamed as their bone hands smacked against his shield, and screamed even louder as brilliant white light erupted from the metal, blinding their eyes. Those that touched the shield watched in horror as their hands exploded like chalk. The throng of tested shouted in a chorus of anger and vengeance.

Jerico laughed at them, then tossed his shield to the dirt. He had given them his answer. He still had his faith, and he was not afraid.

“Kill him!” shouted the tested whose nose Jerico had broken. They swarmed him, lashing out with their hands. He felt the bones smack against his exposed skin and held in vomit at their touch. He had a sudden idea that now he knew what Karak’s minions felt when they touched his shield, and he laughed. His laughter infuriated the tested all the more. Jerico collapsed to his side as they kicked and beat him. Both his eyes were already swelling, and his cracked lips spat blood.

“What are you doing?” Tessanna shouted, her voice carrying the power of thunder. A bolt of red lightning tore through the tested, scattering them. Tessanna followed, glaring with her deep black eyes. Magic danced about her fingers, daring any of them to say a word. The tested swore at her and the paladin, but none moved.

“Traitor!” one woman shouted. Tessanna struck her dead with an arrow of acid that dissolved her face into goo. The rest held their tongues. Tessanna knelt next to Jerico, who was busy coughing and retching.

“They hurt you,” she said, stroking his face. “They can’t do that. Only I can hurt you.”

She turned and stood, scanning the crowd for the one she knew was among them.

“Who can speak for your idiocy?” she asked. “Which among you can justify your stupidity?”

“Idiocy? Stupidity?” Preston said, wringing his hands as he emerged from among the throng. “The death of a paladin of Ashhur is never such. It is just. It is wise. It is needed.”

Tessanna shook her head. If Velixar was right, Karak was letting Preston roam free to test his priests’ faith. Tessanna, however, could not care less. She hurled a bolt of lightning at him. Preston crossed his arms and braced his legs. Thunder sounded in the valley. The lightning parted, its strength gone. The high priest shook his head.

“You will suffer for such audacity,” he said.

“She will not,” Velixar said, pushing his way through the tested, Qurrah following after. “And you are a fool if you think you have the ability to harm a single hair on her head.”

“You protect her?” Preston asked, incredulous. “After what she has done?”

Velixar frowned. He could see more priests filtering their way through the crowd. For once he was being tested, and not the other way around. Karak’s prophet was far from happy. If he protected Tessanna, even after she murdered several of the tested, Preston would have ample fuel for his rants against him. So be it, he thought. The girl was far more important.

“Jerico is hers to torture,” he said. “He is hers to kill. You had no right to send the tested after him.”

“They did only what they felt was needed,” Preston said. “And to have a paladin survive while surrounded by so many of us faithful is a blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy?” Velixar roared. “You challenge the voice of Karak, then speak of blasphemy? We march to victory, to our god’s very freedom, and you think Karak finds such horrible insult in a broken man shivering in the cold as he pulls a cart like a beaten donkey?”

Qurrah felt his whip writhing around his arm. It wanted blood, and it seemed to share his disgust with Preston. If it ever came to that, the half-orc decided, he would make sure the whip got the killing blow.

“You play dangerous games,” Preston said. He glanced about, making sure enough of his priests were nearby. “And you suffer our enemies to live. You appoint yourself leader without peer, without proof. Perhaps Karak’s voice is not so loud in your ear as it once was.”

“You damn yourself with such words,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling with anger. “But how many will damn themselves with you?”

Preston did not answer. He left, calling for his priests to follow. The tested went with him, resuming their songs. Their wild voices chilled even Velixar, for the worship was not to Karak like it should have been. They sang in near insanity, enjoying the power and certainty of their fanaticism. It pained him greatly to think that Karak was not with them.

“He needs to be dealt with soon,” Qurrah said when they were gone.

“You’re right,” Velixar said, pointedly glaring at Jerico. “He does.”

J erico slowly curled onto his side, ignoring the flares of pain in his shoulders. He lay on dying grass, without a blanket for warmth. They were a week out from Veldaren, and after the fourth day, when it became clear he did not have the strength to pull her carriage, she gave him his shirt and granted him permission to sleep beside their fire. His back had been to them, but he was curious about the sounds he heard. Rolling about, he peered through the flames. Tessanna knelt, one hand shakily supporting her body, the other holding back her hair.

“Breathe,” Qurrah told her, who knelt beside her with a hand on her shoulder. “Deep breaths. The nausea will pass.”

Tessanna heaved, but only tiny bits of spittle and acid came out. Jerico frowned, remembering a comment she’d made to Qurrah as they left Veldaren. She was a pregnant woman. He had been so focused on the carriage and remaining silent, he’d let the comment pass right over him, but now he truly pondered its greater meaning. The girl with blackest eyes was with child, most likely the half-orc’s.

How dangerous a spawn, he wondered. But Keziel said daughters of balance never bore children…

He focused, for they were talking again.

“I don’t think it wise to keep him much longer,” Qurrah said when her heaves were gone. Tessanna stared at the earth, her lips quivering and her breathing raspy and uneven.

“What other mode of transport do you suggest?” she asked.

“You have your horse.”

“Too jarring. You know that.”

Qurrah stood, pulling her to her feet with him. “Then have a tested pull your carriage, I don’t care.”

“I don’t like them,” she said. “They’re like dogs with rabies. They’ll bite us soon.”

The half-orc fell silent. So far neither knew Jerico watched, and for that he was glad. Surely one of them would gouge his eyes out if they realized.

“Forgive me, Tess, but you two worry me,” Qurrah said at last. He seemed almost ashamed to admit it. To this the girl crossed her arms and suddenly turned shy and quiet. Jerico had to strain to hear her words over the crackling of the fire.

“He confuses me,” she said. “And he excites me. But he also makes me angry, very angry, Qurrah. I want him to fuck me, and then I want to kill him. He is something that this world no longer needs, and I want to prove it.”

The half-orc swore and looked away. Jerico swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. He knew his life hung by a thread, but never realized how fragile that thread was.

“You’re mine, and mine alone,” Qurrah said. “Torture him however you wish, but do not let him take you. Promise me that.”

“I will be the one doing the taking,” Tessanna said, the shyness all but gone.

“Promise me.”

He turned back to her. She met his gaze, unafraid, unwavering.

“I will do as I desire,” she said. “That is all I know how to be.”

Qurrah shook his head and muttered something Jerico could not hear. Still muttering, he left their camp. Tessanna followed, drawing her knife and calling her lover’s name. She was furious, that was obvious. Hidden well, however, was her fear, but Jerico saw a tiny spark of panic when Qurrah had left.

As he was pondering ways to use the situation to his advantage, he heard footsteps behind him.

“Do you now understand?” Velixar said as he sat beside the fire. “You are nothing that you wish to be.”

The paladin remained silent, still holding onto his original plan. Velixar shrugged, not bothered in the slightest.

“You wish to be a light in the darkness,” the prophet said. “But to Tessanna you are a temptation. To Qurrah you are a threat. To the rest in this camp, a nuisance. To no one are you a beacon. To no one are you an example. This is what our world shall be. What role do you have within it?”

Velixar crossed his arms and leaned forward, knowing he would receive no answer.

“I do not share the blind hatred of my brethren, Jerico. You are not an animal needing exterminated. You are strong, intelligent, and carry enormous faith. But you are wrong. When you boil it all down, you are wrong. About this world. About mankind. About your faith. It is not too late to rectify that error.”

Jerico sat up and shifted so that he and Velixar faced each other on opposite sides of the fire. He watched the features slowly change on Velixar’s face, the shifting barely perceptible.

“Your face,” Jerico said. “Is it true, or is it a lie?”

Velixar tilted his head to one side, caught off-guard by the question.

“It is as true as anything in this world,” he said at last.

“Then my faith is no error,” Jerico said, a great weight leaving his chest. “Not if that is your truth. A shifting, liquid truth is something I want no part of. You call me obsolete. You say the world has moved on. So be it, for that means Ashhur has never moved. We moved from him.”

Velixar shook his head, saddened.

“Such faith and wisdom,” he said as he stood. “Wasted.”

He waved his hand and whispered a spell. Velixar’s frown was the last thing Jerico saw before his eyes closed and a deep sleep took him.

J erico endured the following weeks in silence. In spite of the pain in his legs, the ache in his arms, and the hunger in his belly, he no longer felt abandoned by Ashhur. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before he went home. A few more days of pain were nothing compared to an eternity of glory. The war demons looked upon him with disgust, the priests and the tested with rage, but he endured.

Whenever he pulled the carriage, Qurrah was nowhere to be found, and whenever they stopped, he would always be there. It was a strange game they were playing, Jerico figured, and he didn’t know the rules, just the pieces. Tessanna spoke little to him, and he never responded in kind. It seemed much of her fun with him was gone, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. One night, however, he received a very clear answer.

He lay beside the fire, struggling to sleep. He had begun worrying that one of the tested would try to strangle him while he slept, and it made resting rather difficult. He had no problem with dying, but he didn’t like the idea of those skeletal hands touching his skin. When a finger touched him he startled, for he had heard no steps, no approach.

“Jerico,” Tessanna said. He opened an eye and looked at her.

“Hrm?” he grunted.

“Qurrah’s gone,” she said. Her bottom lip quivered. “His sleep is deep. I need comfort.”

He closed his eye and tried to turn from her. She grabbed his chin and pulled him back.

“Comfort,” she said. He opened his eyes and saw the wildness in hers. “Isn’t that what you offer this world?”

“Go to your husband,” he said.

She laughed at him. “You finally speak, and that’s what you say? You’re a fool.”

With that she grabbed his hair, pulled back his head, and kissed him. Too shocked to react, it was only when she thrust her tongue into his mouth and moaned that he pushed her away.

“Your husband,” Jerico said, breathing heavily. “Go to him. Now.”

He was not prepared for the hurt that suddenly crossed her face. Tears grew in her eyes.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking. “He doesn’t trust me. He loves me, but he doesn’t trust me.” The tears ran down the sides of her face as she crawled closer.

“He blames me for everything,” she said. “His brother. Aullienna. Brug. Even Delysia. He hurts, and it’s my fault, Jerico, all my fault. He wants me to be something I’m not, something I can’t ever be, and he wants us to escape to a place we can never go.”

Her quaking hand brushed the scar on his face. He felt her hurt washing over him, her sadness breaking down his resolve. She was pitiful, she was hurt, and she was beautiful.

“What is wrong with me?” she asked. “I want someone to love me, but I hurt everyone…”

She kissed him again, and this time he did not resist.

“Everyone,” she whispered into his ear as she crawled atop his lap. She pulled off his shirt, and cursing himself, he let her do it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and hating himself he let her slowly grind against him. She kissed his neck, and in near disbelief, he let her mark him.

“There is no wrong in this,” she whispered as she let her dress fall from her shoulders. “No sin. Just warmth.”

Velixar’s words echoed in his head. Just a temptation to her…

“No,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. His whole body shook, and he felt his resolve teetering on a knife-edge. “I won’t do this. It will only hurt you more. Put on your dress.”

She backed away, doing as she was told. She stared at him with dull eyes, all her lust and life dissolving into a single look of apathy.

“Why?” she asked, as if she really didn’t care for an answer.

“Because how can I show you grace, how can I teach you love, if I accept your definitions of them?” he asked. “You would see only its shadows when you deserve so much more. Go to your husband.”

He put on his shirt and stared. She chewed her lip, and by the way she looked at him, he was certain his life was about to end. She drew her knife.

“I hate you,” she said. A wave of her hand and he felt magic closing around him, tightening his muscles and denying him the ability to move. She buried the knife into his gut. His blood poured over her hands.

“Warmth,” she said, twisting the knife. “One way or another.”

He would have screamed, but his jaw was locked shut. She stabbed again. And again. She washed her hands in his blood and then ran her fingers from her eyes to the swell of her breasts.

“They hurt,” she said. “They hurt because Karak made me with child. And Qurrah hurts because he’s scared. You will hurt because I want you to hurt. You’re not that good. You’re not that pure.”

Again he tried to speak, but her spell held him firm. Through the night she cut him, needing no sleep, no rest. Slowly, carefully, her knife did its work. All the while, he prayed.

M ore weeks passed. The army moved with brutal efficiency. The tested ate little, and Velixar’s undead not at all. The war demons carried their own rations, a foul smelling gruel they ate in small bites every few hours. The first few towns they encountered when leaving Veldaren had been empty, but now Jerico saw more and more with stragglers, either unaware or unbelieving of the warnings they received from neighboring towns. After two months of traveling, Velixar had taken Jerico from Tessanna and brought him to the front of the army.

“Look upon the village before you,” Velixar said. The man in black had not bound him, and Jerico could not decide if it was because of arrogance, confidence, or trust.

“They’re preparing to flee,” Jerico said. He saw people running about the streets, a few going house to house while others fled west without a single bit of provisions. About two hundred people total, he guessed. All about to be butchered.

“I will make you a promise,” Velixar said. “Admit that Ashhur has failed these people, left them without protection against my army, and I will spare their lives. Here is your chance for atonement, paladin. Hundreds of people you may save.”

“You ask for blasphemy,” Jerico said.

“I ask you to speak the obvious,” Velixar replied. “And there is more. I will let you stay with them. You can save your life, and the lives of so many others, just by admitting what is clearly true. Are you so afraid of the truth?”

Jerico crossed his arms, feeling every wound Tessanna had carved into his body. He could escape it all. The temptation was there. But he also felt shame at the way he had reacted with her, how close he had been to succumbing. He knew if he said yes, he would feel that shame the rest of his life.

“I can’t,” Jerico said. “And I won’t. It is you who will kill them, Velixar, and that is where the blame falls.”

“We shall see,” Velixar said. He turned and gestured to the crowd behind them. Krieger stepped forth and saluted.

“Send in your paladins,” the man in black told him. “Slay many, but bring me some women and children. Bring them alive.”

“As you command,” Krieger said with a bow.

“You’re a monster,” Jerico said, watching the village with a heavy heart.

Velixar smirked. “Perhaps.”

The dark paladins rode into the village, waves of undead at their heels. Screams of pain and terror traveled through the crisp morning air. Each one was a stab at Jerico’s heart. True to Velixar’s orders, Krieger returned, his blade dripping with blood. A woman rode with him, crying as he held her with one arm. Two other paladins rode beside him. One held a young girl, the other, a boy no older than three. They halted before Velixar and saluted. The prisoners they tossed to the ground.

Velixar knelt before the woman, who cowered on her knees, her head low and her hands clutching the dirt.

“Do not be afraid,” Velixar said, lifting her face with his fingers. Tears ran down her cheeks. She was plain, but she had startling green eyes. She did her best to halt her sobbing.

“Who do you worship,” he asked her. “Who is it that your heart prays to for guidance?”

“Ashhur watches over us,” she said, staring at Velixar’s shifting face in horror.

“Even now?” he asked. She nodded. Velixar smiled. He rammed his fingers into those beautiful eyes. His other hand muffled her scream.

“Watch her die,” Velixar said, his voice trembling as he glared at Jerico. “Blinded in life by your god’s falseness, so blind she dies. Watch her, Jerico! You could have spared her, you damn coward.”

He rammed his fingers in deeper, until her screams died, and her body ceased its frantic twisting. Velixar dropped her, still seething with rage. Nearby the two children bawled, horrified.

“Bring me the boy,” Velixar said.

“Don’t,” Jerico said, desperately searching for something, anything, to spare them. “Please don’t, there is no need for this.”

“You made your decision,” Velixar said. “You agreed to let them die, all so you could claim Ashhur still watches over their souls! Is he still watching? Does he weep yet?”

“If they’re to die,” Jerico said, gut churning as he said the words, “then let it be by my hand, without pain or torture.”

At this Karak’s prophet crossed his arms, suddenly intrigued.

“You would murder innocent children?” he asked. “Your priorities confuse me, paladin.”

“Give me a weapon,” Jerico said, ignoring him. “If the blame is mine, then let me spill the blood.”

“So be it.” Velixar held out his hand, and one of the dark paladins handed over his sword. Jerico took it, running a finger over the blade. It was sharp and well-cared for. He approached the two children, who huddled together as they cried. Jerico felt many eyes upon him, and he knew his time was short.

“Shush now,” he told the two. He knelt before them, his sword laying across his knee. “Shush, and listen to me.”

The older girl stopped her sniffling, while the little boy buried his face into the girl’s skirt.

“They killed mom,” the girl said. “They’re going to kill us too.”

“Put that away for now,” Jerico said, his voice just above a whisper. The less the dark paladins heard, the better. “I want to ask you something, something important. Have you prayed to Ashhur before?”

“A little,” she said, nodding.

“Good,” he said. “Now I want you to pray he’ll watch over you. Pray he forgives all your wrongs, and that you accept the love he gives you. Can you do that?”

Again she nodded. He put his hand on top of the boy’s head and prayed just that for him as well.

“Whatever you do,” he told the children. “Don’t move.”

He stood, gripping the large sword with both hands. He raised the weapon to strike.

“Guide my blade,” he prayed to Ashhur, then spun. He cut the first dark paladin’s throat, and in a smooth motion, took two steps and buried half his sword in the other’s stomach. Krieger yelped in surprise, just barely drawing his sword in time to block Jerico’s strike. He blocked the next two hits as well, and then Jerico leaped back, searching for Velixar.

Two snakes made of shadow sprung from the earth and bit his ankles. Their vile poison seeped into him, immediately turning his world into tumultuous disorder. He saw a twisting, swirled version of Krieger lunge, and then something hard smashed against his face. Blood splattered from his nose. He fell back, still searching. He caught glimpse of a black robe. Without hesitation he turned and swung. He felt his sword connect. He swung again. Laughter met his ears, and then stabbing pain filled his back. A fist slammed his head, and down he went.

“You damn fool,” he heard Velixar say. Jerico sighed. He should have known the retched man would never die. Velixar grabbed him by his hair and lifted his face.

“Look at what you’ve done,” Velixar said. Through blurry eyes the paladin saw the bodies of the children, crumpled together and soaked with blood.

“You killed them,” Velixar said. “Children. Are you still so holy, paladin?”

“The heart is all that matters,” Jerico said, a grin on his bloodied face. “And I will not weep for them. Ashhur has them now, not you.”

Krieger kicked him in the chin, hard enough Jerico thought he’d bit his tongue in two. Blood poured from his mouth. Velixar took the sword from his hand and stood.

“Kill him,” he told Krieger.

“With pleasure,” the dark paladin said.

“You will not!”

Jerico glanced to his right, to where Tessanna pushed her way through the rows of undead that surrounded them. He wondered how long she’d been watching.

“He is mine,” she said, purple smoke swirling about her fingers. “Not yours. You will not kill him.”

“He has killed two of my men,” Krieger said, his sword wreathed in black flame. “I have every right to slay him.”

“I will kill you if you try,” she said. The dark paladin looked to Velixar.

“You are the stronger,” Krieger said. “It is our laws that govern now. The paladin must die. Give me the order.”

Velixar’s face darkened, and his shifting features quickened their dance. Standing a few rows behind Tessanna was Qurrah, watching the proceedings with quiet intensity. They were both sorely taxed by keeping the portal open in Veldaren. Could either stop Tessanna if they tried? He didn’t know. And he didn’t know how Qurrah would react. No doubt he wanted Jerico dead, but at the cost of Tessanna’s life? Definitely not.

“No,” Velixar said at last. “I gave my word. Jerico is Tessanna’s to kill.”

Krieger slowly sheathed his swords, furious.

“Bloody and painful,” he said, glaring at Tessanna. “If it isn’t, and soon, you’ll have my blades to worry about.”

She smiled at him.

“I never worry,” she said. “Not about one such as you.”

As the dark paladin stormed off, he gave a look to Velixar, one the man in black well understood. Krieger’s confidence in him was broken.

“Take him and go,” Velixar said to Tessanna. “Twice now I have put my trust in you, girl of the goddess. Do not make me a fool.”

He left for the village, determined to add more to his ranks of undead. Karak’s servants followed, leaving Qurrah and Tessanna alone with the bloodied paladin.

“Is he worth that much to you?” Qurrah asked her.

“He is my toy, my plaything,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Is that all?” he asked. He left without giving her a chance to answer.

T hat night, Tessanna stirred Jerico from his fitful sleep. He sat up, crossed his arms, and stared.

“What?” he asked, his body rocking side to side. She was sitting cross-legged before him, a strange look of contemplation on her face.

“I asked you once if everyone deserved forgiveness,” she said. “You couldn’t answer. Now you can. You’ve seen what I’ve done, what we do. Do I deserve forgiveness?”

Jerico swallowed, ignoring the pain it caused his swollen tongue.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

She frowned at him. “But you offered it to me anyway.”

He nodded. “Aye. I did.”

“Why?”

At this he chuckled. “That’s what we call grace.”

“I’ve killed people,” she said. “Tortured them. Stole the blood from their bodies. I am everything Ashhur hates.”

“Listen, Tess,” Jerico said. “Either everyone deserves grace, or no one. There’s no rankings, no greater and lesser sins. Either we do Ashhur’s will, or we don’t. Either we love him, or we don’t. That is the simple truth I offer. And you can accept it or reject it. Your choice. If Ashhur forgives you, then I must as well. I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

She looked down at the scars on her arms. She ran a hand over them.

“My father,” she said. “You say I should forgive my father?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You don’t know what he did,” she said, her voice growing soft, quiet.

“It doesn’t matter.”

She looked up at him. The soft voice vanished in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll tell you anyway,” she said, standing. “He raped me. Just a child, but I was his toy. You want me to forgive that?”

She drew her knife. Jerico closed his eyes and lay back down. He had seen this before, granted not in someone so wild and dangerous.

“I killed him,” she said as she approached. “Shoved glass down his throat and sewed his lips shut. Think he’ll forgive me?” She giggled, but it was joyless and frightened. She knelt beside him, the knife edge resting on his neck.

“Your hurt is great,” Jerico said, his eyes closed. “You let it shape you, justify what you are. Who would you be without it, Tess?”

She leaned down, and he felt her hot breath on his ear.

“I wouldn’t be me,” she whispered. “And I like me.”

The knife cut into his skin.

“I like me a lot.”

5

B y the third day of flight, Harruq was aching for the good old days of skulking around the streets of Veldaren at night on some odd job Tarlak had given them. The air was brutally cold against their skin, and the few blankets they’d packed did little to help. Seleven did his best, carrying them on wings that took hours to tire. Sometimes he’d snort, and Aurelia would lean down to whisper to him. That was always a sign for Harruq and Haern to grab on tight and pray to survive the upcoming roll, spin, or dive.

They stopped often to eat, rest, and take care of the normal needs of nature for both horse and rider. For the most part the ground was hilly and rough, the grass a thin carpet over dirt so rocky farmers had abandoned trying to use it. By the fourth day, however, the landscape changed below them. A great river slowly drifted south, and when Harruq turned, he saw an enormous lake rimmed by high, sheer rock walls. Trees surrounded it, their branches hanging low as roots grabbed and clawed for a foothold.

“Wow,” said Harruq, awed by the sight.

“That’s where the Kinel River empties,” Aurelia said as she tapped on Seleven’s neck. They swooped lower for a look. The tree branches were a barren, interlocking weave. Harruq found himself wishing they’d come sooner, when the leaves were still changing their colors. Seleven skimmed atop the river, then soared across the lake, its surface rippling from the air of the horse’s wings.

“What’s that called?” Harruq asked, pointing to the lake.

“Beaver Lake,” Aurelia answered.

“Why’s it called that?” he asked.

Haern smacked him across the shoulder.

“Why do you think?”

Just to show him anyway, Aurelia leaned closer and shouted something to Seleven in elvish. They swooped lower, angling southward. Sure enough, at its southern edge was an enormous construction of wood and mud.

“The beavers dammed it a century ago,” Aurelia said. She pointed past where the Kinel River resumed from waters trickling atop the half-mile long dam. The drop down on the other side was frightening.

Haern shouted something, but Harruq had a hard time hearing it over the wind in his ears.

“What?” the half-orc shouted back.

“I said do you want to go for a swim?”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

They turned north, then slowed. Finding a smooth ledge where they could touch the water with their hands, they landed.

“Why are we stopping?” Harruq asked as he hopped down. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“We need to decide what we’ll do,” Aurelia said.

“Isn’t Tarlak normally the planning guy?”

“He’s not here,” Haern said. “Though your powers of observation are honed to a shocking degree.”

“Harruq is right, however obvious,” Aurelia said. “One of us must talk to Lord Sully when we reach the Green Castle. Only he can mobilize the defenses of the Hillock. The question is, which of the three of us has the best chance of obtaining an audience?”

“Let me think,” Haern said. “An outcast elf, a warrior of orc-blood whose brother wages war upon the world, or myself, son of a dead thief guildmaster…”

“You’re also the King’s Watcher,” Harruq said. “Surely that means something.”

“That king is dead,” Haern said. “And Lord Sully and Vaelor didn’t exactly get along.”

Obtaining wood for a fire was easy enough, so Aurelia wandered closer to the trees and began collecting fallen branches, Harruq helping her. Haern only crossed his arms and looked across the lake.

“Still think you’ve got the best chance,” Harruq said to Haern while he snapped a few branches in half and tossed them into a growing pile.

“It needs to be Aurelia,” Haern said, shaking his head. He reached into one of the saddlebags and pulled out some wrapped meat. When Aurelia snapped her fingers, igniting the campfire, he unwrapped the meat and began preparing it for cooking.

“Why is that?” the elf asked as she sat down beside her husband.

“You can claim to be an official envoy of the Dezren elves,” Haern said. “You’re of their blood. They will have no reason to deny you. Besides, of all human leaders, Lord Sully is the warmest toward elvenkind.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have to live next to them,” Harruq said, ignoring Aurelia’s jab to his stomach.

“There is some truth to that,” said Haern. “But you must also remember the Hillock shares its western border with the Vile Wedge, protected only by the Bone Ditch. The elves and their scoutmasters have played a large part in keeping the creatures there under control.”

“I might be better at words than Harruq here,” Aurelia said, “but that doesn’t mean much. I’m not sure I can convince anyone that the threat is real.”

“Use your beauty and your wit, Aurelia. You’ll do fine.”

Haern winked at her.

A simple levitation spell hovered the meat above the fire, and a twirl of her fingers made it turn as if on a spit. Harruq watched, reminded of his brother.

“It’ll be nice not having to conjure our meal for once,” Aurelia said. “And if I am to talk to Lord Sully, what am I to say? What should we tell him? And will he even believe us? War demons from another world coupled with an undead army and a rampaging horde of orcs might soon come crossing the Kinel or looping around the northern hills and into the Hillock?”

“Makes enough sense to me,” Harruq said, his mouth starting to water. “And hey, don’t stop turning, it might burn the… there we go. Good girl.”

Aurelia shot him a look, but the half-orc only grinned.

“What?” he asked.

“Make you cook your own food,” Aurelia muttered.

“Back to the task at hand,” Haern said. “Dieredon was vague about what the orcs were doing, other than a general spread north. We don’t know where Qurrah and his demons will strike, either. They might follow Antonil west. They might consolidate power in Veldaren, dealing with the various lords one after another. They might even go after the elves for all we know. The point is, Lord Sully needs to know so he can muster his troops to defend his territory.”

“Hard to defend against winged invaders,” Harruq said.

“No,” she said. “He’s right. If the demons assault the Hillock, they’ll most likely be doomed anyway. But I don’t think they’ll do that, not yet. Mordan is the greatest threat, the only other true kingdom. They’ll turn their focus toward it, and most likely let the orcs pillage and burn everything else. There’s a chance to stop them if that happens, so we’ll try.”

“There now,” said Haern. “That sounded plain and precise enough to sway my mind. You’ll do fine with Lord Sully.”

They ate in silence. Harruq shifted uncomfortably, as if he had something to say but was afraid to say it. Haern kept his eyes on his meal, and Aurelia leaned closer toward him, hoping he might find the words.

“I should have killed him,” Harruq blurted.

Haern glanced up. “That’s stating the obvious.”

“Shush, Harruq,” Aurelia said. “You never could have known. He was your brother. Murdering him wouldn’t have brought back…it wouldn’t have changed anything. Don’t blame yourself for what he’s done.”

Haern chuckled.

“You can try all you want,” he said. “But I can think of thousands who wish you’d have buried that sword in his gut. Never forget that. Sometimes mercy is dangerous.”

“So is murder,” Aurelia said.

“Enough,” Harruq said, standing. “I’m sorry. We should get back to flying. Those orcs won’t wait for us to arrive.”

He trudged off, the other two watching him go. Aurelia looked to the fire.

“You blame him for Delysia, don’t you?” she asked.

Haern stood and walked away, saying not a word.

It took several more days to reach the Green Castle, seat of power for Lord Sully. The trip there was quiet, Harruq and Haern saying little to one another. Below them the pale grass rolled, the hills softening once within the borders of the Hillock. Aurelia mentioned a worry of snow, the clouds deep and the air chill, but her concern was unfounded. Still, the weather was foreboding when they arrived at the castle.

“Not much green,” Harruq said as they flew closer. “Looks brown, if anything.”

“Because it’s winter,” Aurelia said. “Every wall is covered with vines. You should see it in summer. The flowers bloom and the vines turn many beautiful shades of green.”

The castle appeared newer in style, built of stone from the mountains to the north. It had a thin wall stretching out from either side, protecting not just the nearby village but several crops fields and deep wells. The castle itself had two layers. Its thick, rectangular base had a tower at each corner and large battlements for soldiers to walk along. The castle’s top was slender in comparison and full of windows. A smooth ramp gave passage between the layers. The entire complex sat upon a hill, and Harruq was glad he wouldn’t have to climb up it, assuming they landed nearby. Given the many archers that lined its walls, he wondered if that was a good idea, and said so.

“I’d prefer we not get shot out of the air, either,” Aurelia said. “Let’s land in the village and approach.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Haern said. “You’re an ambassador of the elves. Land where you wish. Showing unease will only make them suspicious.”

Aurelia shrugged. Made some sense, as much as it worried her. She whispered a command to Seleven in elvish, and they swooped downward. Soldiers were already scrambling when the winged horse landed before the closed gate of the castle’s lower level. Tabards hung over their armor, emblazoned with a green castle over a white field. Aurelia dismounted as a ring of soldiers raised their weapons and glanced at each other nervously.

“Greetings,” she said, bowing in the formal elvish manner, her palms upward and her heels together. “My name is Lady Aurelia Thyne of the green forests, carrying a message for Lord Sully.”

One of the soldiers coughed and looked at the others. When it was clear they weren’t budging, the soldier stepped forward and bowed clumsily.

“Greetings, Lady Thyne,” he said. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll present you to the throne.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him. Harruq and Haern hopped down, revealing their swords.

“Not them,” the highest ranking soldier said. “Your companions must remain here.”

“I’m not leaving them,” Aurelia said. “But I understand your concern. They will come unarmed.”

She shot them a look that brooked no argument.

“Don’t touch the hilts,” Harruq said as he handed a soldier his twin blades, Salvation and Condemnation. “You might get yourself a nasty shock.”

The soldier gave Harruq a funny look but made sure to hold the swords by the sheaths only. Haern surrendered his sabers, and after a glare from Aurelia, two more daggers from his pants, another from his boot, and a fourth from a hidden pocket in his cloak.

“Very well,” their guide said. “Follow me.”

A shout from him and the gates opened. Harruq slid next to Aurelia as they approached.

“You used your old name,” he whispered.

“Thyne sounds much more elvish than Tun,” she whispered back, snickering as he feigned insult.

The hallway leading to the throne was short, decorated with green banners hanging overhead. Portraits of the Sully family lined the walls, men and women of all ages. In the background of each one, lurking like a phantom in the distance, was the Green Castle. Some of the women were beautiful, the men handsome, but every now and then there’d be one with a malformed nose, ugly teeth, or a gargoyle face. This time it was Harruq’s turn to snicker at a portrait of a boy with enormous ears.

“Behave,” Aurelia warned. The soldiers escorting them pretended not to hear.

The throne was empty when they arrived in the great hall. Four long tables ran parallel to the green carpet which led to the dark oak throne. Soldiers with halberds stood at the ready along the far walls.

“My Lord, Lady Aurelia Thyne of the elvenkind!” shouted the soldier, his voice echoing in the empty hall. The three stood at the entrance, moving forward only after the lead soldier gestured. Aurelia led the way, Harruq and Haern flanking her either side. Once they were halfway there, the surrounding soldiers halted and slammed the butts of their halberds to the stone floor.

“Hail the Lord of the Green!” they shouted. The three Eschaton stopped, bewildered.

A door opened on the far right of the throne, and in stepped Lord Sully, a silver crown on his head. His face was clean-shaven, his eyes brown, his hair black with a hint of gray. He wore chainmail armor, brightly polished. A long sword swayed at his hip. When he saw Aurelia he smiled.

“Lady Thyne,” he said, striding up as if they were long-lost friends. “Welcome to my home.”

He extended a foot forward and then bowed. Aurelia returned it with her smooth elven curtsey, while Harruq did his best to match Haern’s expert bow.

“A warm welcome,” Aurelia said, smiling back at him. “Though I fear the news I bring will fade your smile.”

“My smile will never fade looking upon your beauty,” Lord Sully said. “But surely you have traveled long and far. I’ve already sent servants to prepare rooms for all three of you. Might you join me for bread and wine?”

“A kind offer,” Aurelia said. “Though we will need only two rooms. To my right is Harruq Tun, my husband by marriage.”

Lord Sully’s eyes twinkled as if he were deeply amused.

“An intriguing match,” he said, turning to Harruq. “Perhaps while we break bread you might explain how you won over such a lady.”

Harruq blushed and shifted on his feet, not sure if he was being mocked or not.

“Our rooms, please,” Aurelia said, trying to bail Harruq out.

“Right away,” Lord Sully said, snapping his fingers. A trio of servants rushed in from the same door the lord had entered through. “They will take you to your rooms. Once you’ve refreshed, join me in the hall. We’ll have a feast ready for you. The days have grown dark, and it’d be good to celebrate your arrival.”

With a deep bow, he left them. The Eschaton followed the servants to their rooms. Somehow, a large tub of steaming hot water was already waiting in each. The servants handed them several towels and soaps. Harruq accepted them with a perplexed look on his face.

“We walk in, barely even introduce ourselves, and we get food, bath, and wine?” he asked. “Is this how nobility live?”

“Oftentimes, yes,” Aurelia said, untying the laces of her dress. “I went with my parents a few times to speak with the King of Mordeina. Until the ill times, our treatment was always exquisite.”

“Huh,” Harruq said, watching Aurelia undress.

“No funny ideas,” she said as she slipped naked into the water.

“Who, me?”

The water was nearly scalding, but Harruq forced himself in. Once he lay back, the water nearly up to his neck, he sighed and closed his eyes.

“Not bad,” he said.

Aurelia splashed him in the face.

Ten minutes later, the servants returned while they were toweling off.

“Pardon the interruption,” said a chubby woman carrying a stack of clothes. “My Lord says with how long you’ve been traveling you might not have proper court clothes.”

Harruq grumbled as he sat on the bed, only a towel hiding his nakedness.

“I have to dress like a pansy noble?” he asked.

“Yes,” Aurelia said, taking an offered outfit.

“I guessed on the sizes,” the servant lady said. She looked to Harruq and frowned. “Though you’re a tad taller and a bit rounder in the arms than I thought.”

The other two servants accompanying her also held clothes in their arms. The chubby one searched through a pile, found something more akin to Harruq’s size, and laid it out on the bed. She then grabbed the remaining towels before all three hurried off, shutting the door behind them.

“Get dressed,” Aurelia said. “We’ve taken long enough. If we tarry, Lord Sully might take it as an insult.”

“Will he take it as an insult if I wear my old clothes and armor?” Harruq asked, holding up a finely woven shirt of white and blue.

“Of course,” Aurelia said. “You would attend a conference of peace dressed in the garb of war?”

Harruq rolled his eyes.

“Can’t we just go find some orcs and beat them senseless instead?” he asked.

Aurelia let her towel drop and held the dress to her chest. She leaned over and kissed him on the nose, then started sliding the soft purple fabric over her head. Harruq sighed but ceased his complaining. Aurelia’s dress was tight around the waist, but she adjusted it as best she could. The shoulders were frilled in a style she didn’t recognize, the bottom stitched to always appear wavy and in motion. It hugged her body tight, and Harruq shook his head at the sight of her.

“You were meant for this stuff, not I,” he said.

“You look dashing,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Let’s go see if Haern is ready.”

They’d brought Haern a similar outfit as Harruq, dark britches with long-sleeved shirts of white and blue. Haern, however, seemed far more comfortable in it. He’d combed his blond hair back and shaved his face. Harruq wondered if one of the servants had trusted him with a razor, or if he’d managed to smuggle in a dagger despite the guard’s request. Haern wore his gray cloak still, and he let it swoop about him as he bowed.

“Aren’t we the dashing three?” Haern asked, wearing a wry smile.

“Let’s not drag this out too long,” Aurelia said. “Enjoy your food, but make sure we discuss other matters as well. I don’t know how Lord Sully will react or what he knows. He’ll keep his information close to his chest, so watch your words.”

“Yes, milady,” Haern said, winking.

She snapped her fingers at him, the tips sparking with electricity.

“Off we go.”

When Lord Sully had said ‘feast’ he didn’t exaggerate. Harruq’s mouth dropped open at the sight. Baskets of bread dotted the tables, along with several filled with a red fruit Harruq didn’t recognize. Each of the four tables had a roasted boar, still hanging from the spit over elaborate plates of silver. Upon their entrance, the Lord raised a cup from his seat at the head of the largest table. A hundred soldiers sat nearby, their plates empty. As one they stood and turned toward the Eschaton.

“To our guests,” Lord Sully said.

“Honored!” the soldiers shouted, slamming a clenched fist against their breast. They sat as one. Lord Sully sipped from his cup, and then the feast began in earnest.

“Please, sit at my side,” he said, gesturing to empty seats at either side of him. “It will allow us to talk.”

Aurelia sat on his left. Harruq sat beside her, while Haern sat opposite the lord.

“You are too kind,” Aurelia said as servants darted about carrying plates, forks, knives, and food.

“Now is time for feasting, and therefore an end to all the formality,” Lord Sully said. “Please, call me Richard.”

For a little while they ate, Harruq thoroughly enjoying the many meats, breads, and seemingly unlimited amount of wine. After a third cup, Aurelia not so subtly reminded him to keep his head. Harruq muttered but obeyed.

“I must confess,” Richard said, sipping from his cup. He’d eaten very little of the meal set out before him. “We did not prepare such a feast solely for you. Today is a special day for us, a night of feasts for all my soldiers throughout the Hillock.”

“What might that be for?” Harruq asked. Aurelia winced at how he talked with food in his mouth.

“Tomorrow we ride to war,” Richard said. Harruq’s eyebrows shot up.

“Against who?” he asked.

“In the far southwest of the Hillock lives Sir Harford Kull,” said Richard. “He was a loyal knight once, and I rewarded him handsomely when he was betrothed to my daughter.”

Richard sighed and put down his cup.

“The matter is too personal,” he said. “I’m sorry. Sir Kull has gathered men and knights, fostering claims of brutality and murder to create war. Now he marches toward my castle. My patience has ended, and war he shall get. You come on an ill night, your elven grace.”

Aurelia pushed away her plate.

“This matter cannot wait,” she said. “Not if what you say is true. Richard… Lord Sully, what news have you heard of Veldaren?”

Some of the soldiers nearby heard her question and responded.

“Destroyed by winged men,” one said, laughing.

“Aye, red men with wolf pets and orc slaves,” said another. “I also heard a seven-headed dragon came out of the sea and swallowed the entire Mordan army.”

“This is no jest,” Aurelia said, her face flushing. “You must know Veldaren has been destroyed. You are not so far away as that.”

Richard crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat.

“We’ve heard a few reports, though they are as conflicted as they are ridiculous. Wolf-men roaming the wilderness. Orcs pillaging within the city walls. A legion of undead marching like a proper army. Even worse, I had one merchant claim he saw red men with crimson wings flying among the stars. A poor excuse for abandoning your wares, wouldn’t you say?”

“They’re true,” Harruq said. “We were there.”

All around men laughed, then quieted by a single wave of Richard’s finger.

“You ask me to believe the unbelievable,” Richard said.

Harruq ignored the men.

“Karak stirred up the Vile Wedge and led an assault on Veldaren,” he said. “King Vaelor’s dead. Orcs will soon pour over the north unless you do something about it. Whoever this Sir Kull is, I doubt he’s as dangerous as my gray-skinned brethren.”

The silence that followed was deafening. After a moment, Lord Sully spoke.

“Your story sounds more like a bad dream than truth,” Richard said. “But it has been almost ten years since an envoy of the elves came to the Green Castle. I will not dismiss you so easily. What of the red men with wings? Can you explain that?”

“War demons of another world,” Haern said, chuckling as he said it. Harruq thought the assassin far too amused by their preposterous tale.

“Get these buffoons out of here,” an inebriated soldier called from far down the table. Richard glared but did not spot the offender. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, looking directly at each member of the Eschaton in turn.

“My scouts along our northern border have reported orcs across the Bone Ditch,” he admitted. “Nothing major, not yet. They’ve crossed before and broke on the walls of Veldaren. Indeed, many were returning to the Vile Wedge, and I thought them defeated. Now you say they had victory. Will they come for us?”

“You must give up this silly fight with an errant Knight,” insisted Harruq. “We think the war demons will give chase after King Antonil and the rest of Veldaren’s survivors. The orcs will come for the Hillock, though. You need to muster your troops and protect your people!”

“It will be a cold day in the Abyss before I let a man of orcish blood tell me how to run my lands,” Lord Sully said, standing. “I will remove the danger within my own house before turning to the danger without. This feast is done. Return to your rooms. I will send a servant for you before I march.”

Harruq stood, biting his tongue to keep himself from saying anything that might earn him a stay in a dungeon cell. Two soldiers led them away. Once back in their rooms, Harruq stripped off his clothes, glad to be done with them. He put on his own outfit, feeling far more comfortable.

“What I’d give to have my swords back,” he muttered as he collapsed atop the bed. He shifted about and grunted. “Huh. At least the bed’s comfy. What is in here, anyway? Goose feathers?”

Aurelia lay down beside him and covered her eyes with her wrist.

“This is all a waste of time,” she said. “The last thing we need is the few troops here slaughtering each other. When the orcs do arrive, they’ll find the land ripe for the taking.”

“We hurt the orcs pretty bad at Veldaren,” Harruq said. He wrapped his arms around his wife and held her close. “If Lord Sully’s seen orcs moving back and forth, it means they’re trying to get back to the Vile Wedge. They don’t have the numbers to siege any castles. However; if it was Velixar got them into Neldar, I doubt it was over a bridge.”

“A bridge!” Aurelia said, bolting upward.

The door opened, and in stepped Haern. He, too, had changed back to his normal attire.

“Did I startle you?” Haern asked as he shut the door.

“The orcs will need far greater numbers if they’re to take either Felwood or the Green Castle,” Aurelia said. “What if they’re trying to build a bridge across the Bone Ditch? That’s the only real way for them to get reinforcements. It’d take months for them to go south and over the Rigon River, then loop all the way back north.”

“Bridges tend to burn easily,” Haern said, grinning at Aurelia. “Think you can make us some fire?”

Aurelia winked.

“Let me get out of this dress,” she said. “For now, let’s enjoy the beds we have and leave tomorrow morning.”

“Richard won’t be happy,” Harruq warned.

“Since when did you care about pissing off others?” Haern asked.

Harruq shrugged.

“Just saying is all. But I prefer to have my swords with me when I piss someone off.”

Haern laughed and left the room.

“They won’t dare detain us if I demand our leave,” Aurelia said as she removed the elegant dress and laid it out across the bed. “Now stop staring and help me with the laces.”

Harruq helped tie the back, then kissed her neck when she was done.

“Least we get something useful out of you being an elf,” he said.

She turned around and kissed his lips.

“Don’t worry about what Lord Sully said. About orc blood.”

Harruq laughed.

“Trust me. I’ve been insulted far worse, and that’s just from Tarlak. I’ll be fine. But after good food, good wine, and needless argument, I’m aching for a bed. Tomorrow we can worry about bashing in some orc heads.”

T he next morning, Harruq awoke with a throbbing headache.

“Ugh,” he said, rolling over and mashing his head between pillows. “What’d they put in that wine, gut rot?”

He splayed out across the bed, then realized he had far too much room. Poking an eye open, he glanced about.

“Aurry?” he asked.

Their quarters were empty. Harruq startled out of bed, flailing drunkenly against the multitude of bed sheets.

“Aurry!” he shouted.

He was halfway finished buckling on his armor when a blue portal ripped open above their bed. Giggling like a young maiden, Aurelia fell straight down atop the mattress, bounced once, and then vanished in a massive tangle of sheets.

“Where the Abyss have you been?” Harruq asked as the portal closed.

In answer, Aurelia lifted one arm free and showed him his two swords. Harruq grinned.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

“Lord Sully’s forbidden us from leaving until his army marches for the chipped fields,” she said, freeing her face from the sheets.

“Where’s that?” Harruq asked as he reattached the swords to his belt.

“About ten miles southwest,” Aurelia said. “We flew over them on our way here. Really flat hills, with ground too rocky for farming. Evidently Sir Kull has camped there, and Richard hopes to have his battle before the sun sets.”

“I take it he doesn’t want us warning the renegade knight?”

Aurelia sat on the edge of the bed, her bare feet dangling.

“That appears to be the idea. They’ve got Seleven locked in their stables with three guards, along with yours and Haern’s weapons.”

“You get Haern’s sabers?” Harruq asked.

Aurelia snickered.

“Haern got them last night while we slept. You should have known he would.”

The half-orc bit his lip, then shrugged. Yeah, he probably should have.

“I take it our kindly Lord doesn’t realize you have certain magical abilities?” he asked.

“Nor does he know trying to keep Haern locked up is like trying to imprison a shadow. When I left Lord Sully, I pretended to be heading back here but…” She grinned.

“Let me guess,” Harruq said. “You made yourself invisible, snagged my weapons, freed Seleven, and then magically escaped your elven butt here to brag about it.”

She kissed his nose.

“Exactly. You ready to go?”

“Any chance I can eat first?”

Her eye roll was answer enough.

The door cracked open, and neither were surprised when Haern slipped inside.

“Their army numbers near five hundred,” the assassin said as he shut the door behind him. “Two hundred ride horses. They could do wonderful damage to some orcs if they found them on open fields, but I doubt they’d stand a chance against the legions of dead.”

“Or a winged army,” Harruq muttered.

Aurelia walked over to the window and pushed aside a thin white curtain. Outside she saw the gathering forces moving about the courtyard, carrying supplies, sharpening weapons and saddling up horses.

“As long as the threat here is just rumors and dreams, they won’t react,” she said. “We need to convince them of their danger. This isn’t some threat of a new conqueror or a change of ruling Lords. Your brother will destroy everything here, everything. We’ll live in a world of ash and bones.”

“Not Qurrah,” said Harruq. “Velixar.”

The elf sadly shook her head.

“They’re more similar than you’d prefer, Harruq. Their reasons might be different, but what they’ll achieve together is the same. Their threat may be far away, but the orcs are near. Perhaps we can twist this conflict to everyone’s best interest…”

“How?” asked Haern. “Think the orcs will send an envoy of their own? Their form of politics involves hammers and really loud shouting.”

“No,” Aurelia said, spinning about. “I mean by doing exactly what Lord Sully worries we might. Let’s go. Seleven should be waiting just outside the city walls.”

A twirl of her hands, and a portal opened up before them. Aurelia stepped inside, a strange hardness overtaking her features. Before Harruq could step in to follow, Haern grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“Stop defending your brother,” Haern told him.

“But he’s not…”

“No,” Haern insisted. “Look at me and listen. Aullienna was her child, perhaps the only child she’ll ever have in this brutal life we have left. No matter the reasons, no matter who else might share the blame, Qurrah still took Aullienna away from us. Let Aurelia hate him. Don’t try to deny her that.”

Harruq pulled his shoulder free.

“Hatred is not for her,” he said. “And you’re a fool if you think that’s what she needs.”

He stepped through the portal, almost hoping Haern didn’t follow after.

Just as Aurelia said, they exited outside the Green Castle’s walls. Seleven waited there, pawing the ground nervously. Aurelia called him over and stroked his neck.

“Let’s go,” she said, mounting the winged horse. Harruq and Haern shared a glance, but neither said a word to one another. They climbed atop Seleven’s back, and in a great gust of air, soared into the sky amid surprised cries from the nearby guards atop the wall.

“I assume we’re going toward that knight?” Harruq asked, needing to shout to be heard.

“That’s right,” Aurelia shouted back.

They flew southwest, the land a lifeless image below them. They said little to one another as the hour passed. The hills smoothed out, spreading wider. Several patches were so thick, and the grass so thin, that they seemed brown scars atop the landscape. Lines of smoke bloomed in the distance as Sir Kull’s camp neared. A few commands from Aurelia and they banked low, landing at the camp’s outskirts.

“Don’t expect too warm a welcome,” Haern said as they dismounted.

Armed men rushed toward them, their swords drawn and their battered shields at ready. Harruq and Haern kept their hands at their sides, while Aurelia approached with her palms upward in a gesture of peace.

“Halt!” said the first soldier to arrive.

“We’re here to talk with Sir Harford Kull,” Aurelia said. “The matter is urgent, and I demand an audience.”

The soldiers glanced at one another, some fearful, some suspecting a trap. The sight of an elf on a winged-horse was strange enough. A cloaked assassin and a burly half-orc only tripled the confusion.

“Wait here, and keep your blades sheathed,” one of them finally said. “I’ll see if Harford will come.”

“Be nice to arrive somewhere without having people ready to kill me,” Harruq said as they waited.

More soldiers swarmed about them, maintaining a safe distance between the three. From deep in the camp came a group of eight, with the front two carrying banners of a red bear. Harruq fidgeted nervously as they waited for them to arrive. First King Antonil, now Neyvar Ceredon, Lord Sully, and this Sir Kull person. He was so tired of meeting people with potential power to have him killed. He longed for the simple nights of skulking about Veldaren in search of a troublesome thief or murderer.

“Presenting the Lord of the Southlock, Sir Kull!” shouted the banner carriers in unison. Sir Kull stepped forward. He was a tall man, his skin dark and his hair darker. His beard hung all the way to his belt, twisted in loops and braids. The knight smiled, but the joy never reached his eyes.

“A pleasure to meet such an odd group of guests,” he said after a quick bow. “Might I know whom I have the privilege of welcoming?”

“My name is Aurelia Thyne of Nellassar,” Aurelia said with a curtsey. “This is my husband, Harruq. Beside him is Haern, the King’s Watcher of Veldaren.”

Sir Kull seemed a bit surprised by the last part.

“The Watcher?” he asked. “I had heard rumors, but he was supposed to be a ghost made of cinders and coal. Yet I see just a man.”

Haern chuckled.

“If pressed, I’ll give you a demonstration, good Sir. You may not enjoy it.”

Aurelia glared, but Sir Kull only laughed.

“Indeed, indeed, how foolish of me to make light of such claims. Please, tell me, why have you come to my camp?”

“Lord Sully has already prepared his army,” Aurelia said, making sure she projected her voice far and wide so the rest of the camp heard. “He marches this morning, and his aim is clear. All your men will be killed.”

A wave of nervous chatter rolled through the ranks.

“We expected such a response,” Sir Kull said. “Though perhaps not so soon. Why does this matter concern you?”

“That is irrelevant,” Haern interrupted. “Lord Sully has two-hundred mounted warriors to fight at his side. I see no stables, no horses within your camp. You are what, three hundred men? You will be trampled underneath their hooves.”

Sir Kull’s smile faded into his beard.

“Why have you come?” he asked again, his voice low.

“To warn you,” Aurelia said. “And to present you with hope. To the northwest are the many hills beside Sully Lake. The rocks and steep slopes will render their horses annoyances, and nothing more.”

The knight crossed his arms and looked to his trusted retainers at his side.

“If they have that many men on horses, the chipped hills will be our doom,” one said. “Perhaps we can move northwest while we scout out their strength.”

“You must hurry,” Aurelia said. “The Green Castle is not far. Time is not your friend.”

Sir Kull drew his sword and saluted them.

“I don’t know your reasons, nor if you speak truth. If you do, I owe you greatly. If not…we will meet again.”

He turned and left, the soldiers returning with him. The three Eschaton remained alone on the outskirts of the camp, watched from afar by a ring of soldiers obviously there to keep an eye on them.

“So what did we just accomplish?” Harruq asked.

“The further northwest they move, the closer to the orcs and the Bone Ditch they’ll be,” Aurelia said. “Lord Sully will have to give chase. If we can get them to see the destruction the orcs have spread, perhaps our words will turn from rumors to truth.”

After giving Seleven a few more minutes to rest and drink from a nearby stream, the three mounted and soared into the air.

“Where to now?” Harruq asked.

“We’ll need to slow Lord Sully down to give them time,” Aurelia explained.

“Awesome,” Harruq said. “Do I finally get to hit something with my swords?”

“No,” Aurelia shouted.

Harruq sighed.

L ord Sully’s knights rode ahead of the main army but not far. The Eschaton watched the process from atop a nearby hill, Aurelia’s keen eyes seeing more than the rest.

“He’s too cautious,” Haern said. “If he’d abandoned the footmen and rode straight for Kull's camp, they’d overrun them with hardly a sweat. Instead they wait for the slower group of soldiers and lose much of their advantage.”

“Richard thinks Sir Kull is coming toward him, not away,” Aurelia said. “Now to make sure their travel is far from pleasant.”

Aurelia closed her eyes and lifted her hands to the heavens.

“Don’t disturb me,” she said. “And stay back. There might be a bit more lightning than I expect.”

Harruq and Haern shared a look and retreated to the bottom of the hill. High above Aurelia, the dim gray coiling of clouds slowly turned. A great wind howled from the east, bursting with sudden life. White light shone from Aurelia’s fingertips, then spread to her palms. The wind swirled around her, teasing her dress and lifting her hair. The clouds grumbled angrily, deepening to an ugly black.

Thunder roared. In the deep cold, the sound was ominous and unwelcome. The minutes passed, the wind quickened, and soon the sky was a dark curtain. With slow, careful motions, Aurelia pointed her fingers west. Magic flared out of her. The clouds rolled with the wind, lightning crackling in their center. The heavens rumbled, and freezing rain began to fall. It covered the grass, taking only seconds before turning to ice. Harruq crossed his arms and shivered, glad they’d been spared the brunt of the weather. When the rain reached the troops, Aurelia slowly relaxed and let her hands fall to her sides. Harruq trudged up the hill toward her, Haern trailing.

“They’ll find the going miserable in the cold and ice,” Aurelia said. “The rain will follow them for only an hour, but they’ll need to build fires to banish the chill, as well as remove the ice from their armor and supplies.”

She tottered a little, but Harruq caught her in his arms. The elf pressed her fingers to her temples and patiently breathed in and out.

“You going to be all right?” he asked her.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just get us into the air. We’ll find someplace further away to rest, then figure out just what Sir Kull will run into when he flees north.”

Harruq helped her atop Seleven, then sat behind her. Haern curled his cloaks about himself and leaped atop the horse’s back.

“Be glad when this damn winter is over,” he muttered.

They flew low to the ground, following the flat spaces between the hills, which Aurelia felt a likely guide for Sir Kull’s movements. As they travelled north, the hint of smoke lined the horizon.

“An army?” Harruq asked.

Aurelia shook her head, her face grim.

“I fear worse,” she said, though she didn’t explain what.

Seleven beat his mighty wings, and toward the smoke they flew. A heavy knot was twisting in Harruq’s stomach as the hills rolled past. They saw no army, but instead the remains of a large village. Without a word, they landed on the outskirts, dismounted, and surveyed the wreckage.

“They burned everything,” Haern said, shaking his head. “Just… everything.”

Over a hundred homes lay crumpled, broken boards and smoldering ash all that remained. The odor of smoke and blood hung in the air as Harruq wandered toward the village center, his hands trembling. Flies swarmed about, blanketing pools of blood and entrails that lay scattered about the streets. Despite the carnage, he saw no bodies.

“Where are they?” he asked. “Where are the dead?”

“Here,” Haern shouted. Harruq followed his voice. On the other side of the village was a giant pit, and Harruq nearly vomited at the sight. Thousands of bones were piled within. An army of crows hopped among them, feasting. When Aurelia saw it, she immediately turned away and covered her mouth.

“What happened?” Harruq asked, dreading the answer. He felt distant memories crushing in upon him.

“Man-flesh,” Aurelia said, her face pale. “They butchered everything, Harruq. The goats, the pigs, the cows… and the rest.”

Harruq turned and fled. His swords were in his hands, yet he never remembered drawing them. He struck broken boards and nearly collapsed walls. Gray sky hung above him, but in his mind it was filled with stars. The village was empty, but in his mind it was full of fleeing men and women. This village had no name he knew, but the one of memory was called Cornrows. In years past, while still serving Velixar, he and Qurrah had destroyed the entire village, leaving not a single survivor.

Harruq stumbled over a broken sword and fell to one knee. He knelt there, his vision blurred. Aurelia called out to him, but he didn’t hear. He didn’t want to hear. The weight of a hundred murders crushed his shoulders and choked the breath from his lungs. Harruq dropped his swords. Amid his red vision he found a cornhusk doll, half of it burned away. When he picked it up, he felt tears well in his eyes.

“Harruq?”

The half-orc looked up. He felt naked and confused. A slender hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched as if struck. Another looped around his neck, and then Aurelia’s hair fell across his face, and within its privacy Harruq sobbed.

“No better,” he said when he could to speak. “I’m no better. How could I have done something like this? How could I… how could…?”

“Shush,” Aurelia whispered, but Harruq would not listen.

“I’m a monster,” he said. “Just a monster.”

Haern approached. his sabers swing at his hip.

“The orcs went west,” he said quietly. “They must have attacked here on the way. Wouldn’t be surprised if they had run low on supplies. When Sir Kull and Lord Sully arrive, they’ll have to be men of stone to ignore this carnage.”

“Thank you, Haern,” Aurelia said, still clutching her husband. “Please, go to Seleven. We’ll be with you soon.”

Haern nodded and left. Harruq’s sobs had turned to soft, shuddering breaths. He seemed almost embarrassed by his outburst. Aurelia used her fingers to wipe his face, and when he looked to her, she smiled.

“What?” he asked.

In response, she kissed his forehead.

“Not a monster,” she told him. “Maybe once, but not now. And not ever again. Do you remember when Aullienna was born? You tried to flee me, flee her. Do you remember?”

Harruq nodded.

“You were scared out of your mind,” Aurelia said, and she smiled again. “But you stayed. You changed. Don’t punish yourself over what you’ve done. No matter what, I love you. And no matter what Qurrah does, I’ll love you. And no matter what happens to this whole blasted world, I’m still going to love you.”

Harruq chuckled, embarrassed and ashamed and tired. He held her tight, his hands lost in her hair, his wet cheeks pressed against her neck.

“I think that’ll be enough,” he said. “Just don’t leave me, all right?”

“How could I leave such a mopey half-orc?” Aurelia said, kissing him once more. “Now let’s go. We need to make sure those two stupid lords and knights get the right message out of here.”

They returned to Haern, who stood waiting by Seleven. He watched the south, and when they neared, he pointed.

“I believe that’s Sir Kull,” he said. “They’re moving like someone’s lashing their backs with whips, so Lord Sully must not be too far behind.”

“Are they heading this way?” Harruq asked.

“Looks like it,” Haern said. “The smoke has drawn their attention.”

“Let’s wait for them,” Aurelia said. “But away from here. The smell turns my stomach.”

They rode Seleven a quarter mile south and waited. When Sir Kull’s army neared, the three Eschaton expected their customary greeting. They weren’t disappointed. Soldiers surrounded them, weapons drawn.

“You’ve led us on a merry chase,” Sir Kull said once he arrived. “Lord Sully stalks us even now, and the northern hills are still days away. And what of the smoke in the distance? Do you play games with us, elf?”

Aurelia shook her head, clearly having no patience for such banter.

“You’ll see it with your own eyes,” she said. “Your land is in dire peril. But my words will mean nothing. Go see. Ride ahead on a horse if you must.”

“I will not flee into an ambush,” the knight said.

“Then bring the whole army,” Harruq said. “Hope they have strong stomachs.”

Sir Kull glared but did not respond.

“Come with us,” he said. “Let us see what game you play.”

Aurelia glanced to the others, who merely shrugged.

“Very well,” she said. “Lead on.”

They traveled in relative silence, talking only when asked a question pertaining to what they knew of Lord Sully and his movements. Seleven trotted behind them, and Harruq figured the horse glad to stretch his legs instead of his wings. All around them, soldiers in armor huffed and puffed, their eyes drooping and their faces ragged. If it came to battle, he doubted they’d be up for a fight. Slowly the smoke cloud neared, until those in the front could see its source.

“Auchby’s been attacked!” shouted one of the soldiers. The cry traveled through the army.

“Auchby?” they shouted. “Auchby burns!”

Sir Kull grabbed Aurelia’s wrist and yanked her close.

“What part did you play in this?” he asked. Harruq was there immediately, ignoring the swords that pointed toward his neck.

“Let go or lose the hand,” the half-orc growled.

The knight paused a moment, then let go.

“I would never have part in something so vile,” Aurelia said. “We’re here to help, but to do that, you people of the Hillock must first open your eyes.”

The men marched on, a bit of urgency returning to their step. The path they took led them between two thick hills, and at the end of its curve they arrived at the massacred town of Auchby. The Eschaton remained on the outskirts as, wide-eyed and horrified, Sir Kull’s army slowly spread throughout the remains.

“Watch your tongues,” Aurelia told them as they waited. “We’re walking on thin branches.”

“Above hungry lions,” Harruq added.

“The analogy worked well enough without your help,” Haern said.

The half-orc shrugged.

After ten minutes, Sir Kull returned, flanked by six of his men.

“Orcs did this,” he said. “How long have you known?”

“We came to warn Lord Sully,” Aurelia said, watching the knight closely. “He would hear none of our warning. When we came to you, we doubted any better a result. So we’ve brought you both north. As for this village, we found out only this morning.”

Sir Kull’s hand drifted down to his sword, and Harruq tensed in case he drew it from its sheath. Haern was already swaying, his hands hidden underneath his cloaks.

“Who loosed the orcs upon the east?” Sir Kull asked. “When did this happen? We’ve heard only outlandish rumors of Veldaren’s fall at their hand. Never once did we take them seriously.”

“They’re real,” Aurelia said. “The orcs crossed the Bone Ditch, and will do so again. They must have a bridge. If we can destroy it, there might be a chance to protect your Hillock, for a time.”

Sir Kull looked south.

“Richard will be here soon. We’ll set up formations beside the village. If he wants to fight amid his own people’s dead, then so be it. The Hillock will be better without him.”

Sir Kull saluted and left.

“Aren’t we messengers of doom,” Haern said, throwing back his cloaks and halting his rhythmic swaying.

“Not much good news to spread lately,” Harruq muttered.

“Let’s go,” Aurelia said. “I’d be shocked if Lord Sully desires to fight after seeing this. We have a bridge to find.”

She whistled, and Seleven trotted over. The Eschaton climbed atop her back and took to the sky. They flew westward, the smoke fading behind them. Harruq looked back, watching for a long time before turning away.

T he sight of the Bone Ditch nearly unhinged Harruq’s jaw from his face. Noticing this, Aurelia asked Seleven to fly lower, directly into its center. Stretching hundreds of feet from side to side, the giant chasm made them seem puny and insignificant. Far below them ran the Rigon River, making its way south across Dezrel. The rock was red and brown, the cliffs sheer. All along the bottom were untold numbers of bones. The creatures of the Vile Wedge had long used the chasm as both a burial ground and an execution method, and it was their name for it that eventually stuck.

“No wonder the orcs can’t get across,” Harruq shouted. “You really think they can build a bridge long enough?”

“It’s been done before!” Aurelia cried.

They swooped higher and followed the Bone Ditch north. Harruq leaned over to one side and watched the chasm twist and curl below them. Sometimes the sides narrowed together, and sometimes they spread wide, but at no point did they seem within even a hundred yards. At no point could he imagine a bridge long enough to span the distance.

And then he saw it.

Hundreds of orcs lined both sides, scurrying like an army of ants. Cut logs and planks were stacked on either side. They hurried about, weaving ropes, smoothing boards, and hacking into the rock. Seleven dipped low, swooping underneath the bridge. Below it were more orcs, hanging from ropes and hammering into the rock to create supports. Ropes had spanned the narrow area, almost two hundred yards in length. So far the middle was empty, just a gap between the supports. Given the work going on, it looked to be finished within days.

At their passing, the orcs shouted and pointed, and a few hurled their hammers or nails, to no avail. Seleven banked higher and out of range of any projectile the orcs might use.

“What do we do now?” Harruq asked.

Aurelia glanced back and winked. Seleven spun them around, and from high above Aurelia closed her eyes to concentrate. Fire burst from her fingers. As they flew overhead, she hurled seven fireballs toward the bridge. Each ball erupted in a great explosion of flame, shattering supports, charring the rope, and destroying the wood planks. They banked around a second time as the bridge collapsed and fell into the chasm amid howls of fury.

That done, she wrapped her arms around Seleven’s neck and shouted orders above the wind. The winged horse turned, flying back toward Auchby.

“They’re trapped now,” Aurelia said. “Without a bridge, they can’t reinforce from the Vile Wedge.”

Harruq grinned. Without a way to retreat, the orcs would be crushed against the chasm by the Hillock’s soldiers… assuming the soldiers hadn’t hacked each other’s heads off in their feud.

When they arrived back at Auchby, it appeared their feud might wait. Lord Sully’s men camped about half a mile south of Auchby, while Sir Kull’s were set up to the east. Aurelia landed in Sir Kull’s camp since they were still uncertain what Lord Sully’s reaction would be to them breaking out and disobeying his orders.

“Welcome back,” Sir Kull said. “Might I ask where you’ve been?”

“The orcs were building a bridge across the Bone Ditch,” Aurelia said. “I destroyed it. They have nowhere to go. If you march now, you might wipe out the whole lot of them before they can scatter north.”

Sir Kull nodded, then turned toward Lord Sully’s camp.

“His men are searching the village,” he explained. “I sent out a messenger with request to parlay. We’ll see if he accepts.”

A soldier arrived, his armor polished and his tunic clean. Evidently Sir Kull had fixed him up a bit before sending him over to Lord Sully’s. The man saluted, then delivered his report.

“He’ll meet you between our camps, in front of Auchby,” the soldiers aid. “Their camp is stirred, and angry, but I don’t feel it directed toward us.”

“Good,” Sir Kull said. “Dismissed. Gentry, fetch me a horse. William, see if you can find me a fresh tunic.”

Sir Kull turned and bowed to the Eschaton.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I have much to do.”

“We’re glad to get out of the way,” Harruq said. “Just make sure I get to kill some orcs by tonight, eh?”

Sir Kull flashed a smile.

“I pray you have your chance,” he said.

The Eschaton ate a bit of food offered by Sir Kull’s soldiers, and then rested while they kept their eye toward Auchby. The two noblemen met, each accompanied by three escorts holding flags waving their family’s coat of arms. For a long while they talked, to the point that both armies became nervous and fidgety. Finally, they saluted and broke. When Sir Kull rode up, he held his sword high.

“Tonight,” he shouted, “we repay the blood spilled this day! Lord Sully has granted me my rights, and shall press no claim until the day our lands are safe! To the west!”

Harruq let out a whoop.

“Time to kill some orcs,” he said.

They rode atop Seleven, but kept to the ground. Following them marched the combined armies of Sully and Kull, their animosity vanishing like the smoke behind them. They followed the inner slopes of the hills, the Eschaton leading them northwest toward the bridge. Aurelia angled them a bit, so that when they were parallel to the bridge they’d have a bit of distance between them in case the orcs had fled either north or south.

“They’re likely to assume an army will be near,” Aurelia said as the hills steadily smoothed out toward the Bone Ditch. “Though if we’re lucky, they’ll think we were alone, as the Scoutmasters of the Quellan elves often are.”

“I don’t think we’re often the lucky sort,” Haern said. “They’ll be ready, and from what I saw, our numbers advantage is slight.”

“Yes, but we have horsemen,” Aurelia insisted, gesturing to the two hundred knights riding with Lord Sully’s group. “We’ll trample the orcs against the cliff.”

At last the hills smoothed out completely, and waiting for them in battle formations were the orcs. They formed circles around the remnants of the bridge, a thin line of spearman before a great many with axes. They howled and cheered at the sight of their enemy. Lord Sully and Sir Kull joined the Eschaton at the front.

“They’re packed tight,” Lord Sully said as he rode up on his horse.

“Too tight,” Sir Kull said. “If we surround them, they’ll have no way to maneuver. One steady push with your horsemen and we’ll knock them right off the cliff.”

“I’m sure you’d love my knights to drive headlong into their spears,” Lord Sully said. “What’s your plan, to push us off after we finish with the orcs?”

“If I wanted your men to die, I’d simply give the word,” Sir Kull said, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

Aurelia saw this and felt her temper flare.

“Auchby burns,” she said, recalling the words each of their own men had shouted. “Or have we forgotten?”

Both men glanced away, as if embarrassed. In the distance, the orcs shouted and clanged their weapons together, working themselves into a frenzy.

“My men will engage their left flank,” Lord Sully said. “Have yours engage the right. When we see a gap or weakness, I’ll lead the charge with my knights.”

“Good enough,” said Sir Kull, saluting. The two noblemen returned to their armies, shouting orders and encouragement.

“Once these orcs are dead, we might have a tough battle still waiting,” Harruq said as they left.

“We’ll have to remind them that these orcs are just the tip of the arrow,” Aurelia said.

“So you heard their plan,” Haern said. “Where do we fit in it?”

“Well, since each army is taking either left or right, how about… middle?” said the elf.

Haern grinned.

“Perfect.”

With a call of trumpets and a communal shout, the human army approached. The orcs howled, sounding almost impatient. As Lord Sully swung his men left, Sir Kull broke them right. They swarmed about the orcs, giving them no path to retreat, only the long fall in the Bone Ditch. If they were worried, the orcs didn’t show it. With unusual control for their race, they didn’t even charge when the humans neared. Instead they waited, letting the fight come to them. That alone worried Harruq as he dismounted from Seleven.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Orcs aren’t that disciplined. Think they trapped the lines?”

“They can’t have had time, and the ground is bare,” Haern said as he leaped off and drew his sabers. “Whatever trap they have, it isn’t in the dirt.”

“Hope you’re right,” the half-orc said.

“Actually, I hope he’s not,” Aurelia said. “I prefer the trap we suspect to the one we know nothing about.”

Another trumpet blew, and then the humans charged. Harruq drew Salvation and Condemnation and clanged the sister swords together. As a red glow surrounded their steel, he bellowed a war cry and charged. Haern ran alongside, his cloaks billowing behind him. In a terrible cacophony of pain, steel, and blood, the armies collided. The humans, smaller in stature and weaker in strength, relied on their numbers and training to endure the sudden, brutal fury of the orcs.

When Harruq reached the fight, he dashed between two sorely pressed soldiers and swung his blades, cutting off the arm of an orc and disemboweling a second. Haern slashed and spun, blood splattering as his enemies fell. Several more orcs lined up, trying to form a defensive front against them.

“Harruq!” he heard Aurelia shout, her voice magnified by magic. When Harruq glanced back, he saw Aurelia in the midst of casting a spell, her eyes locked skyward. He turned, and then dropped to his knees out of reflex and horror.

Four boulders hurled through the air over the Bone Ditch. Aurelia hit one with a wall of magical force, cracking it in half and killing its momentum so that it fell into the chasm. The three others struck the ground outside the orcs’ formation, crushing the human soldiers.

“Aw, come on!” Harruq shouted. On the other side of the Bone Ditch he saw four enormous catapults. About fifty orcs scrambled about them, pulling levers and lifting boulders. Aurelia rushed closer, watching the far side as the orc forces howled with glee.

“We can’t withstand that assault,” Haern said as the elf neared. Aurelia nodded, her gaze still distant.

“You trust me, Harruq?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Roll when you land,” she said, pushing her palms against his chest. Before he could respond, he felt something sharp ram into his stomach, and then he was flying. He spun about, his arms and legs flailing wildly. Only sheer panic kept his swords clutched tight in his fists. A powerful force of wind continued blowing against his back after he turned, and feeling a strong sense of vertigo, he watched the other side of the chasm approach.

“Roll, just roll,” he muttered, his heart pounding and his legs feeling like water. He glanced back once to see Haern flying after him, a grin on his face. The four catapults fired again, the boulders passing far too close for comfort.

“Woooohooooo!” the assassin shouted at the top of his lungs.

Harruq vowed to kill him if they actually survived the landing.

At least the orcs were as surprised as he was when he tucked his shoulder and barreled through their ranks. He went head over heels three times, rolled along his side twice more, and then jumped up to his feet. Dirt covered his armor, and bits of grass stuck to his hair. The first orc unlucky enough to attack Harruq died in three pieces, completely unprepared for the vicious wrath unleashed upon him. Three more closed in, surrounding the raging half-orc.

Harruq grinned darkly at them.

“I’m not the scary one,” he said.

And then Haern came whirling in, his feet hardly touching the ground before he changed course. His sabers cut around their axes, giving them no time to block or strike. As they fell, Harruq and Haern linked up, standing side by side as the rest of the orcs not manning the catapults turned to fight.

“No reprieve,” Haern said as the orcs charged. “Scare the shit out of them.”

“Will do.”

The two Eschaton met the rush head on, Harruq leading the way. With his magical blades and greater reach, he cut down the first two, then flung his weight into his run. He slammed through them, lacking Haern’s skillful weavings and parries. Instead he flung his opponents aside, tore through their defenses with incredible strength, and emerged coated in blood. Haern followed, his sabers deftly cutting ankles, wrists, and necks. He left a wounded, immobilized force in his wake, his cloaks also soaked. Together they spun, raised their weapons and attacked.

The orcs broke, having already lost half their numbers while hardly incurring a scratch. They were the weak, the ones left behind to build and construct while the warriors traveled with Velixar into Veldaren. Against such skill, they had no chance. Harruq cut down a few before turning back to the catapults. He watched as they unleashed a barrage of four boulders. Two of them halted in midair and fell into the chasm, while the others crashed and rolled through a distant mass of warriors.

“Take the left,” Haern said, sheathing his sabers before breaking out in a sprint. Harruq chased after, veering off as his mentor asked. A couple noticed their approach and shouted, as if in disbelief that they were still alive. Harruq let out a bellow from the pit of his stomach. The orcs had only hammers and ropes for weapons. It was no contest. Harruq gutted one, cut down another, and then slammed his shoulder into a third. The orc flew off the cliff, his scream slowly fading as he fell.

One catapult out of commission, he turned to the second. Its orcs let off one last boulder, then fled. Harruq shrugged and looked for Haern. The assassin had made quick work of his own catapults. Half the orcs were dead, the other half fleeing into the Vile Wedge. Harruq trudged over and then pointed.

“The bridges weren’t for the orc soldiers,” he said. “They were for the catapults.”

“This should slow them for a few weeks,” Haern agreed. “Neither the Green Castle nor Felwood would survive long if the orcs had actual siege weaponry.”

“Let’s hope we bought them a chance, then,” Harruq said. “How’s the battle going over there?”

Haern squinted, trying to make out shapes.

“Looks like the horsemen are running rampant through their lines,” he said. “It will be over soon.”

Sure enough, tiny figures were falling down the chasm, the bodies of hundreds of orcs as they were corralled and pushed to their deaths. When the battle ended, the dead bodies followed after. Harruq and Haern cleaned their weapons and armor as best they could, then waited. Aurelia arrived soon after, riding atop Seleven.

“Enjoy the ride?” she asked as she landed.

“You’re evil,” Harruq said, accepting her offered hand and hopping onto the winged horse’s back.

“So, no?”

The half-orc rolled his eyes as Haern joined them.

“They seem to be getting along all right,” Aurelia shouted as they took flight. “Either way, our time here is done. Tarlak will be waiting for us in Kinamn.”

They swooped over the combined human forces, Aurelia waving. Sir Kull’s men saluted with their blades while the horsemen cheered.

“That’s better than our last greeting,” Harruq said.

“To Kinamn,” Aurelia said, banking Seleven southward.

“Let’s hope Tarlak’s had as much luck as us, eh?” said the half-orc.

It took three days to fly across the Hillock, and when they reached Beaver Lake they stopped again for food and rest. The Bone Hills loomed before them, tall and barren. Nestled against the southern tip of the hills would be Kinamn, capital of Omn and in the very center of the trading paths between what had been the largest and wealthiest nations, Neldar in the east and Mordan in the west.

“Kinamn will be more like Veldaren,” Aurelia said as they lay down for the night. “An expansive city, though not as large. More importantly, it’s far less defended. They have little chance of surviving against Qurrah’s army.

“Velixar’s army,” she corrected. Harruq kissed her cheek and rolled over underneath their blankets. The cold winter night dragged on, silent but for the lapping of the lake against the shore. A lone owl hooted once, then quieted.

Harruq turned about and pulled Aurelia into his arms and held her tight.

“What…” she started to ask, but he stopped her with a kiss. He pressed his forehead against hers. When she stroked his face with her fingertips, she felt tears. She needed no explanation, no excuse. After a quick glance to make sure Haern slept far away by the lake’s bank, she climbed atop her husband.

Afterward, she cuddled him, feeling her body meld with his. His rough hands encircled her waist.

“Forever,” she whispered. “You’ll have me forever.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he whispered back.

“And you never will. But since when did that matter?”

They slept until morning, the winter’s bite held at bay by their warmth.

6

“I hope Harruq and them are doing better than us,” Tarlak grumbled as he joined his companions in their meager lodgings. Lathaar looked up from his seat at the table, several cards in hand. Dieredon sat opposite him, holding cards as well. They were in their room above an inn. It was cramped, with two beds, a table, and a small chest to store their belongings. Over the past week they’d drawn straws to decide who slept on the floor. For the third night in a row Tarlak had drawn poorly, and he had begun to wonder if Dieredon was cheating.

“Cards?” the wizard asked, pointing toward Lathaar’s hand. “Since when do you gamble?”

“I gamble nothing, except perhaps my pride,” Lathaar said, scrunching his face as he looked at his hand. “Though I wonder if I have even that left. Take a look. What do you think I should discard?”

Tarlak walked over and frowned.

“That,” he said, pointing at a crudely drawn prince.

Lathaar tossed it down. Dieredon quickly matched it, then placed the remaining two cards of his own down, revealing another matching pair.

“Your loss again,” the elf said. When Lathaar scowled at Tarlak, he only grinned.

“Never said I knew how to play, either. Was just surprised that you did.”

“Have you made any progress with the king?” Dieredon asked as he gathered up the cards.

“Evidently getting an audience with King Stephen is akin to asking for a private conversation with Ashhur,” Tarlak said. “And don’t you dare correct me about that, Lathaar. I’m in no mood.”

Lathaar stood and stretched his back.

“We’ve stayed here under his majesty’s request,” he said. “And we’ve played along, all to plead our case before the throne. But instead we’ve gotten nowhere, and warned no one. It won’t be long before a number of refugees and traders arrive, bringing who knows what sort of bizarre rumors with them. If we’re to be believed, we must act first; otherwise we’ll be lumped among the madmen.”

“He’s right,” Dieredon said. “Why this delay? I come as official envoy of the elves, and even then I am turned away from the palace gates. Something is amiss.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” asked Tarlak. He crossed his arms and scowled. When he realized the other two were looking at him, he raised an eyebrow.

“What? Oh. Wait. You’re both kidding right? You want me to open a portal directly to the king?”

“Can you?” asked Lathaar.

“There’s no wardings here,” the wizard said. “So hypothetically, yes.”

“Then I think it time we do so,” said Dieredon.

“We’re apt to get killed,” Tarlak insisted. “We’ll be trespassing, perhaps taken for assassins. Bigger problem is I can’t go somewhere I haven’t seen. Have either of you been to the throne room before?”

Both shook their head. Tarlak sighed.

“Get your things ready. I have an idea, but it won’t be fun. Our time is running out. Any longer, and we’ll have an army of demons and dead conveying our message a lot louder than us, but by then it’s going to be way too late.”

They ate a meal in the commons area of the tavern, deciding any deviation from their normal pattern might attract notice. A few came over to Lathaar to discuss their troubles, and the paladin listened, giving advice when he could, and providing a sympathetic ear when he could not. Tarlak amused a few people by summoning an ethereal flute that played a rather popular tune. Dieredon stayed in the corner, watching everything.

When night fell, Tarlak cast a spell of invisibility over the three of them.

“I can’t do much about the noise,” he explained once the spell took hold. “Being unseen won’t mean much if you make a cartload of noise walking around.”

“I could make it to the castle unseen without need of a spell,” Tarlak heard Dieredon say from his right.

“Yeah, but I don’t think we can say the same for our paladin friend.”

From his left, armor clinked and rattled as Lathaar shifted nervously.

“I oiled it best I could,” he said.

They headed down the stairs, trying to be quiet as possible. For Tarlak in his robes and Dieredon in his oiled leather, this was hardly difficult. Lathaar, however, felt like a gargantuan drum, an invisible metal can of noise. Part of him was glad he couldn’t see the winces his friends made as he followed after.

Tarlak had put a small rock in his pocket after casting the spell. When inside the folds of his robes, it was invisible, but when he took it out and held it in his hand, it regained visibility. Using the rock as a floating guide, Lathaar and Dieredon followed Tarlak out of the inn and into the streets of Kinamn.

A few torches lit the crossroads, but the rest of the streets were left to darkness. Thin clouds hid the stars, and the moon peeked through only occasionally. The streets themselves were wide and smoothly paved, so following the floating rock as it glimpsed in and out of existence proved fairly easy. They traveled north toward the castle, stopping only when guards in groups of four passed by, a gold symbol of a cautious fox emblazoned on their red tunics.

A thin wall surrounded the city, along with several fields and wells. The castle itself had a second wall, only high enough to reach Lathaar’s chest. An iron gate blocked the initial entry. The rock hovered still for a moment just within sight of that smaller wall and then vanished. Lathaar paused.

“You guys hear me?” Tarlak whispered.

“Aye,” whispered Dieredon, so close to Lathaar’s right that the paladin jumped.

“And that clatter must be Lathaar,” Tarlak said, his voice still low. “Good. There’s four guards watching the gate, and several more patrolling. I’ll cast a sleep spell on those two on the left. Climb over fast as you can, and head for the castle’s main doors. I’ll wake the guards once you’ve made it over.”

“How will you know?” Lathaar asked.

“I won’t. Just move quickly. Well, not too quickly. Dear gods, you’re louder than a smithy’s workshop.”

Lathaar approached the wall, feeling like an idiot as he took step after careful step. He could see his own skin and armor, and it took a great amount of self-control to walk toward the guards without fear of being spotted. The heads of the guards were easily visible over the wall. When a patrol of four walked past, leaving just the two at the closed gate, Tarlak cast his spell.

Their heads drooped, and their shoulders slumped. Lathaar scrambled toward the wall and flung his arms atop it. He grunted as the heavy weight of his armor screeched and groaned. What the Abyss was he thinking? Why hadn’t he removed it back at the inn? Shouldn’t Tarlak have convinced him to do just that?

“Quiet,” Dieredon hissed directly behind him. Strong hands grabbed his waist and shoved upward. With the grace of a falling boulder, Lathaar toppled to the other side. There was no hiding the noise. Both sleeping guard startled awake, looking worried and embarrassed. When they saw no intruders, they chuckled nervously and stood a bit straighter at their posts.

Step after baby step, Lathaar made his way toward the castle doors. Idly, he wondered how long the invisibility spell would last. Perhaps it’d run out while he crept along; the biggest, dumbest, most incompetent burglar ever.

Begging to Ashhur for that not to happen, Lathaar continued on, albeit a bit faster. When he reached the doors, he bumped into something invisible.

“Watch it,” Tarlak muttered. “You made enough noise to wake the dead. Why in the world are you wearing that armor, anyway?”

Lathaar didn’t respond.

“How do we get through the door?” asked invisible Dieredon.

“Now that’s the fun part,” Tarlak said. He reached out until he found both their shoulders. “Stand very still, and keep your eye out. If a soldier wanders too near, tell me to shut up.”

The castle doors were at the top of twenty stone steps, and the closest guards were at the bottom. Unless they started singing, Lathaar didn’t expect any difficulty. Quietly, Tarlak began chanting another spell, his hands still holding his companions.

Suddenly Lathaar felt his stomach lurch. The world turned gray and oversized. The walls shifted like smoke, and the door before him shook as if it were made of liquid.

“What the…” he started to say, and then Tarlak yanked him right through the door. They reappeared on the other side, in a well-lit entryway leading toward the throne. Banners hung from the ceiling, their embroidery shimmering in the torchlight.

With an audible pop, the world returned to normal, and Tarlak and Dieredon appeared within view.

“Enough of that nonsense,” Tarlak said, stroking his beard. “There’ll be guards inside, but I think we can handle them without any need for magical or lethal force. The question is, where do we look?”

“We need to find the king’s chambers,” Dieredon said. “Though I fear we will surely come across as assassins now.”

“Oh well,” said Tarlak. “Their own damn fault. We tried diplomacy. Time for the Eschaton way!”

“You mean the stupid, dangerous way?” asked Lathaar.

“Exactly.”

They entered the throne room, all three on the lookout for guards. It was vacant and dimly lit by two torches. Dieredon rushed ahead, moving silent with practiced ease that made Lathaar jealous. When he had looped the room, he returned, shaking his head.

“No guards nearby,” he said. “And no doorways. The king’s chambers must be elsewhere.”

“When in doubt, move higher up,” Tarlak said. “Suits the ego.”

They headed down the hallway to their right, following Dieredon’s intuition more than anything. The approach of torchlight around the corner alerted them to guards. Tarlak put a finger to his lips, then start looping his hands in the air. A white mist surrounded their throats. When the guards cried out, no noise came from their mouths.

Dieredon raced toward them as they drew their swords. He avoided the first two clumsy swings, jammed his hands against one’s elbow, and then twisted the hilt free. He parried the other’s attack using his stolen sword, elbowed the guard in the face, and then spun. His feet and fists lashed out, striking both.

As they collapsed, Dieredon applied quick kicks to the backs of their heads, ensuring they stayed down for a long while.

On the other end of the hallway, Lathaar glanced at his swords and sighed.

“Why am I here again?” he asked.

“To look pretty,” Tarlak said. “Now keep quiet.”

They passed many doors, but Dieredon never paused as he led them along. The square castle seemed to have a logical sense to it. If the extravagant hallway entrance to the castle led to the throne, then on the opposite end, its back to the throne, would be the king’s chambers.

When they took a second left, the hallway ended at an enormous set of double doors. It seemed the elf was correct. The four soldiers standing at attention only confirmed it.

“Back,” Dieredon said, pushing the Eschaton away. Two crossbow bolts pinged against the stone wall where they had been. The soldiers cried out in alarm, and this time no spell silenced them.

“Take them out, quick,” Tarlak insisted, magic sparking from his palms.

Lathaar turned the corner, trusting his armor. Two of the guards rushed toward him, buying time for the other two as they cranked their crossbows. Lathaar drew his swords, the blue-white light of their blades flooding the enclosed space. The soldiers stopped at the sight.

“A paladin?” one asked. “But why?”

“We’re not here to kill anyone,” Lathaar said, hoping they wouldn’t notice the spells Tarlak prepared to unleash. “We must speak to your king.”

The wizard paused, waiting for their reaction.

“No one speaks to the king,” the leader said.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Lathaar insisted. “But too many lives are at stake. Stand down.”

“He delays too long,” Dieredon said to Tarlak. Already he could hear footsteps approaching from behind, as well as movement from a nearby door that he assumed were servants’ quarters.

The guards were clearly troubled. They looked to one another, until their eldest stepped forward.

“We cannot, under pain of death,” he said. “Lord Penwick is our majesty’s trusted advisor, and he assures us our liege is very troubled. No one is to see him.”

A squad of armored men came up the hallway behind them, twenty in number. Dieredon took up his bow and shifted his feet, his eyes glancing between the two groups.

“Many of you will die if you try to imprison us,” Tarlak warned.

“Please, you must understand, we have no choice,” another guard said.

“There is always a choice,” Lathaar said. He sheathed his swords. “Take us to this Lord Penwick, or is there an order not to disturb him, either?”

The guard looked to Dieredon and Tarlak.

“Will you put away your weapons, and come peaceably?” he asked.

Dieredon said nothing, but Tarlak shrugged.

“Eh, why not. At least we get to talk to someone, right?”

The elf slung his bow across his back.

“So be it,” he said. “Lead us on, but do not lay a hand upon my person. I am no prisoner.”

The older guard relaxed, but only slightly. He gestured to the groups, ordering them to part. The Eschaton walked between them, but as they passed through the rows of men, Tarlak paused.

“Oh, one moment,” he said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. “I almost forgot this.”

He flung a handful of dust into the air, and before anyone could react, he shouted a single word.

“SLEEP!”

Every guard fell limp, their eyelids drooping heavily. Lathaar fell as well, fighting the deep magic. Only Dieredon stood unaffected, a bewildered look on his face.

“I thought we were to talk to this Lord Penwick,” he asked as he helped Lathaar back to his feet.

“Yeah, but I’d rather find out what the Abyss is going on with their beloved king,” Tarlak said. “And if he is troubled, or ill, perhaps our paladin friend here can aid him.”

Tarlak tilted his head to one side as Lathaar collapsed back to his knees and snored loudly.

“Once he’s awake, of course,” Tarlak muttered. He snapped his fingers in front of the paladin’s nose, whispering a word of counter-magic. Lathaar startled awake instantly and reached for his swords.

“Relax,” the wizard said. “Get up. We have a king to talk to.”

Without ceremony, they pushed open the double doors and stepped into the spacious chambers. Dressers lined the walls. Thick, green curtains surrounded the bed. When Dieredon pulled them aside, they found clean bed sheets, unused.

“The king does not sleep here,” the elf said, sounding very much confused. “But these are certainly his chambers.”

“They are,” said an elderly man striding into the room. There were two different entrances to the bedchambers, and he came from the one opposite their own. He wore fancy silks embroidered with gold, crimson slippers, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. His beard was long and neatly-trimmed. His green eyes showed no fear of the three intruders.

“And who are you?” Tarlak asked.

“Lord Penwick,” the old man said, not bothering to bow. “I dare say you were on your way to meet me when you put down my guards.”

“They’re just sleeping,” Lathaar said. “We are no murderers. We come with message to the king, one he has so far refused to hear.”

“That is because there is no king to hear it,” Lord Penwick said. “Surely you have guessed that by now.”

“Obviously,” Tarlak lied. “Though the reason seems a little vague to us foreigners. Care to explain?”

“Figures the barons would send foreigners to do their dirty work,” Lord Penwick said as he sat on the bed.

“Barons?” said Tarlak. “We’re refugees from Veldaren, and while we’re not above doing some dirty work, we need to get paid for it. Trust me; we’re here for purely noble reasons.”

“And those would be?” asked the old man.

“Veldaren has been destroyed. An army of winged soldiers flies this way, accompanied by a legion of undead. You need to muster as many solders as you can to protect your people! Those who cannot fight should flee west, where they have a chance to survive.”

Lord Penwick shook his head.

“I fear you come at an ill time. How long until my guards wake up?”

“About half an hour,” Tarlak said.

“Good, then tell me your tale, and I will tell you mine.”

Tarlak started first, telling of how the creatures of the Vile Wedge had crossed into Neldar. He described their attack upon the walls, of the orcs' vicious assault upon the gates, and Velixar’s magical aid. Penwick’s face darkened with every word, and his shoulders drooped lower.

Then it came time to describe the war demons and the portal behind the throne. Tarlak left Qurrah’s involvement out of it, placing all the blame on Velixar. He told of Mira’s portal to the elves, and of their narrow escape. Last he told of their plans to flee west.

“A horrific tale, if told truthfully,” the old man said when Tarlak was done. “Most of my people are doomed if what you say is true, and I wonder if any action on my part will change that.”

“You must try,” Lathaar said. “Now, tell us what happened to your king.”

Lord Penwick spoke with a gravelly voice, steady but weary. King Stephen had been a kind but ineffective king. The surrounding barons of Ker had threatened revolt, but Lord Penwick had managed to broker an unsteady peace. King Stephen had no legitimate heir, for he had never married. The barons would let Stephen reign until his death, but afterward, the barons would appoint amongst themselves a new king.

Originally the choice had been obvious, a powerful baron named Gregor White. However, he had died the previous winter, leaving two sons to squabble over their inheritance.

“How long has the king been dead?” Tarlak asked, interrupting.

“Three weeks,” Penwick said. “The barons will tear Ker asunder fighting over the throne. I had hoped to prolong the charade long as possible, praying that one might prove himself a clear heir. So far, that is not the case. I cannot muster troops, for the moment I do the barons will think I am making a play for the throne.”

“Do you desire the throne?” Lathaar asked.

“Of course I do,” Lord Penwick said. “But I’ll die if I try for it, and those foolish barons will darken our soil with blood. And now comes an army. What am I to do? Amid evil times you have come, Tarlak Eschaton, and evil tidings you bring.”

Tarlak glanced back at the doors, where the soldiers were starting to stir.

“I think it’s time to go,” he said. “And as for your situation, Lord Penwick… I think it’s all irrelevant. Kinamn does not have the forces to stand against the army that approaches, not even if all the troops of Ker were mustered. Tell everyone to flee, whether they believe you or not. We’ll be in the streets of your city, telling the same tale.”

“You will not be believed,” the old man said. “And I will be mocked.”

“We have to try, damn it,” Tarlak shouted. “Can you not at least concede me that?”

A bitter smile lit up Lord Penwick’s face. “You’re right. Let us try. Good night, gentlemen. I need my rest. Come the morning, I will issue a decree that will mean the end of my tenuous hold over the city.”

He turned and exited the door. Closing his eyes, Tarlak envisioned their room at the inn and summoned a portal home. The Eschaton leaped through, and with a hiss of air, the portal closed.

“Do you think he will?” asked Lathaar when they were safely in their room.

“Not a chance,” Tarlak said, shaking his head. “What proof do we have? He told us what we wanted to know, and made a weak promise he will not honor. This city is doomed, and there appears little we can do about it.”

“Will we do as you said?” Dieredon asked. “Shall we shout from the rooftops that an army comes?”

“Until Harruq and the others return, we’ll cry out warning,” Tarlak said. “Hope for a miracle, friends. That’s what it’d take to save the people of this city.”

“I fear the time for miracles is ended,” Lathaar said.

“That’s no way for a paladin to talk,” the wizard said, slapping him on the shoulder. “The world’s coming to an end. If there’s a time for a miracle, it’s now.”

S eleven drifted lower as Kinamn came into view. Harruq stretched and used his fists to pop his back.

“Can’t wait to walk on solid ground again,” he shouted.

“Don’t get used to it,” Aurelia shouted back.

They swung about, angling toward the main entrance on the southern wall. With a swoosh of feathers and flying clumps of dirt, they landed. Harruq leaped off first, catching Aurelia when she followed. Haern patted Seleven on the neck before dismounting.

“Think they’ll let us through the door?” the assassin asked.

“We’ve made doors through walls before,” Aurelia said. “Does it really matter what they say?”

Haern shrugged.

“Your call. I find people better hosts when I haven’t thrashed their place, though.”

Harruq took Aurelia’s hand and led them on toward the gate. When they were halfway there, a winged horse shot into the sky from deep within the city.

“That’s, um, them,” Harruq said, pointing. “Right?”

“Can’t imagine who else it’d be,” Haern said. “Wait a moment.”

The horse banked around, and sure enough, three riders sat atop her back. The horse dipped down, and with a great gust of air landed before them.

“Welcome back,” Tarlak said as he hopped off and tipped his hat. “Enjoy your trip?”

“Tremendously,” Harruq said. “Aurelia flung me across a cliff, and I nearly got brained by a flying boulder. We stopped a feud between the lords in the Hillock and destroyed an orc bridge. They’ll be patrolling the Bone Ditch, watching for more bridges. How’d you three do?”

“Terrible,” Tarlak said. “The king here is dead, and his advisor’s too scared to do a damn thing. We’ve been yelling from the rooftops that doom approaches. Needless to say, we’ve not convinced very many people.”

“Have any arrived from Neldar yet?” asked Haern.

Tarlak rolled his eyes, too frustrated to answer, so Lathaar answered for him.

“A few show up, but they’re mocked or ignored. Some buy or steal provisions and then continue west. Others have joined us in our warnings, but they’re few and far between. Most have just disappeared into the city. They’re probably hoping that Kinamn’s walls will protect them better than Veldaren’s did.”

“Little chance of that,” said Haern. “So do we return to Antonil, or do we stay?”

They looked to one another, and when no answer seemed apparent, they turned to Tarlak, who sighed.

“Always the leader,” he muttered. “We leave. We’ve done everything we can to warn this city, and while some have left, it’s been far too few. I will not stay and watch a massacre.”

“These people have done nothing wrong,” Lathaar insisted. “We must convince them that…”

“That what?” asked Tarlak, gesturing east. “That an army of winged soldiers and rotting undead march this way, determined to wipe out all life? I think they’d rather die in their walls than live out their lives fleeing west in terror.”

Silence fell over the group. Aurelia put a hand on Tarlak’s shoulder.

“You’ve done what you could,” she said softly. “Don’t blame yourself. Let us ride out to meet Antonil. We will make our stand as one.”

The wizard sighed, then nodded.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, hopping back onto Sonowin. Dieredon whistled, and Seleven flew over and let himself be petted.

“Once we find Antonil, I will return,” Dieredon said. “It may be to find only rubble, but I must do what I can to track Karak’s army. Nothing can keep up with Sonowin at full wing, so fear not for my safety.”

“I’m not sure there is such a thing as safety in this world,” Tarlak replied before the elf flew away.

7

S outhward, the demon army followed the Kingstrip road, the undead lumbering at the lead, flattening a huge swath to each side of the beaten wagon path. Fallow fields stretched as far as the eye could see with harvest long past. So deep into winter, there was little to scavenge. The war demons relied on hard rations that seemed impervious to rot or mold. Jerico ate little of it, the taste of the meat foul and salty.

As weeks passed, their path gradually turned west. Upon reaching a fork, the army camped for a day. The southeastern path led toward the elves of the Erze forest as well as the Lords in Angelport along the coast. To the west were Antonil’s forces. Jerico assumed they discussed strategy, but he was privy to none of it. His days and nights were one long march, undead before him, fanatical tested and dark paladins behind, and flying demons above. He felt cold and alone, and with each stare of Velixar’s eyes, he felt his faith eroding. At last, the army seemed to reach its decision. At daybreak they continued west, resuming chase of Antonil’s forces.

They pillaged as they traveled, though the spoils grew ever scarce.

“Like rabbits,” Qurrah had muttered after veering off the Kingstrip to ransack a small farming village. They’d found little supplies and no residents, only scattered remnants of chaos.

“Look west,” Jerico said, mocking as a bit of his old self flared up. “I’m sure you’ll see their cotton-white tails.”

Tessanna punished him severely for that.

Pulling her cart had at least one benefit, and that was exercise. If he had been bound and carried, Jerico feared his finely honed muscles might have withered and decayed. Instead, he found them growing stronger, though his flexibility suffered. Every night he lay down with bare earth for his bed, cold grass for a pillow, and a night sky his blanket. Sometimes Tessanna came with her knife. He’d begun to appreciate her subtle skill. He could deal with physical pain. It was Velixar’s taunts that cut deep.

The days and weeks melded together, so that the paladin lost all track of time. His throat was forever parched, his lips cracked and bleeding. Scars lined his shoulders and chest, which was sometimes bare in the cold, sometimes not. Qurrah watched with distaste. The rest of the army, seething glares. But one night, as Jerico lay shivering, his legs curled up to his chest and his arms around his ankles, he heard footsteps approach. They were steady and light.

“It seems winter is Karak’s time,” Velixar said. Jerico kept his eyes shut, hoping sleep might steal him away. The prophet continued, as if he didn’t care whether the paladin slept or not.

“The light is failing. The stars themselves dim. The elves see their goddess in the stars, did you know that? Even Celestia loses her luster within the cold. But Karak remains strong. The darkness comforts. It does not blot out the beauty of the stars, only enhance it. Do you feel the light touch on your skin, Jerico? It has begun to snow.”

Jerico stirred from an uneasy doze. He felt numb, yet strangely warm. With blurry vision, he saw a thin layer of white across his body. Velixar chuckled.

“Were you hoping for an easy death? You will not pass away in your sleep. I am death’s most comfortable friend, and I do not sense it about you. Get up and seek a fire, paladin.”

Jerico sat up but did not leave his spot. He brushed snow off his shoulders and curled his knees to his chin. His jaw chattered as his body reawakened to the cold infusing itself deep within him.

“I will find no comfort here,” he said.

“Not even the comfort of another’s body?” Velixar asked. “Tessanna would give it to you, if you would only accept the offer. What harm would there be in it? Do you think Ashhur would prefer you to die?”

Jerico chuckled through his chattering teeth.

“I thought vipers were cold-blooded,” he said. “Yet you seem quite lively in winter.”

Velixar’s red eyes sparkled with humor.

“Such a strong spirit. You waste it, Jerico. Your fanatical allegiance will mean nothing, not with it devoted to the wrong god.”

“Funny. I’ve always thought the same of you.”

Velixar grabbed Jerico’s neck and lifted him off the ground. A steady heat spread from his hand, melting the snow and filling his chest with a burning pain. His chills faded, and as much as he hated it, he felt thankful. Setting him on his feet, Velixar grabbed the paladin’s wrist and led him west. A ring of soldiers ordered them to halt at the edge of the camp, but realizing who it was that approached, lowered their weapons.

“Where are you taking me?” Jerico asked, once the camp was far behind. He thought of escape, but his body was sluggish, his reactions slow. He had no chance against the dark power of Velixar.

“I want you to see something,” Velixar said, as the snow gathered atop his robes. The white seemed appropriate somehow, as if it were a burial shroud atop a being that should have been long dead. They traveled across ground that steadily turned rockier, until at last they climbed a hill that seemed almost solid stone. At the top, Velixar gestured outward. In the far distance, blurred only by the swirling lines of snow, was a great city.

“That is the city of Kinamn,” Velixar said. “The Jewel of Ker. Do you see its walls? They are thin, paladin, and they are not tall. Its gates have more wood than iron. Do you see its castle? There are many windows, and through each one will fly a demon of Thulos. There are thousands sheltered before you, huddled together in their homes and sleeping close to dwindling fires. Do you know what will happen to them? To every… single… one?”

Jerico fought to look away, but he could not. Velixar latched onto his face with his frozen hands. His stomach lurched at his touch. Jerico looked upon the city as Velixar hovered within his vision, his eyes burning, his mouth scowling.

“They will die,” Velixar said. “And they will serve me. It is inevitable. This whole world will soon share its fate. I will be a god, for what else would I be when every living thing obeys my command? I will build a tower of flesh and bone, whose very walls will shift and wail. My throne will be the twisted spines of a thousand children. To your god, I am the greatest abomination, a creation so vile and sinful your soul aches in my presence.”

“Why am I here?” Jerico asked, his voice shaking. The cold was returning, and Velixar seemed to have no intention to rekindle the warmth that had awoken in his breast.

“Answer me this question,” Velixar said. “Tell me truthfully and I will let you go free. You may warn the people of the city, or perhaps flee like a coward and leave them to their fate. I don’t care. All I want is my answer. Do you disagree with all I have said? Do you disagree with what I know I am?”

Jerico looked to the city, seeing hundreds of torches and fires, just tiny dots in the distance. So many lives within. So many to die.

“You are what you say,” Jerico said. “A most hideous abomination.”

Velixar laughed, as if he took pride in the label.

“Then why? ” he asked. “Why does Ashhur let me live? Protector of the weak, slayer of the darkness, beacon to the lost… why do I still walk this earth to mock your god? Why will that city die, even though you say Ashhur will weep for its destruction?”

He lifted his arms, his palms open in worship toward the heavens.

“Strike me with lightning,” he cried. “Burn me with fire! Send down your wrath, Ashhur! In the open I am, and I call your power false. Will you endure such blasphemy? Kill me! Give me peace in death, and an eternity in my god’s bosom.”

The snow fell, and other than a soft gust of wind, the night remained silent.

“You have heard me,” Velixar said, turning toward the paladin, who had fallen to his knees, clutching his arms to his chest and rubbing them for warmth. “What is your answer?”

“I have none,” Jerico said. “For my heart wishes for lightning and fire from the heavens. I would give anything to see you burn.”

“You don’t know,” Velixar said, shaking his head. “You have no answer for me, yet you still cling to him in faith. Why? I don’t understand.”

“Because your words are empty,” Jerico said. He closed his eyes, summoning the memories of a hundred people in prayer he had knelt beside. “No matter the death you spread, I have seen souls give of themselves for an eternity of joy. I have seen grace strike down the evilest of men and turn them into something pure. Burn this world to ash. We’re here for only a little while. This is not our home.”

Velixar laughed.

“You say that?” he asked, grabbing Jerico by the neck and lifting him so they could stare eye to eye. “Such confidence. Such lying. You think what I do will have no effect on your faith, my actions no bearing on your meager justifications of your religion? You are in for a fall, paladin. Your faith is glass, and I am the hammer. When you break, I will be there. When you finally surrender, when you are ready to accept a faith that has meaning in this wretched world, I will be waiting.”

“I hope you’re prepared for a very long wait,” said Jerico.

Velixar’s grip tightened around his neck. Spots swirled before his eyes as his heart pounded in his chest.

“I have lived for centuries,” Velixar said. “To see a paladin such as you broken would be one of my greatest triumphs. I will wait as long as it takes.”

Tighter and tighter. Jerico felt his legs go limp. His body hung lifeless from that single strong hand. Darkness overtook him. Just before it did, just as his vision was a swirling chaos of red and yellow, he heard Velixar’s mocking laughter. It continued on and on into the foggy state his mind succumbed to, laughing. Laughing and condemning.

When he awoke, he was beside a healthy fire. Tessanna sat nearby, her legs crossed and her dagger slowly tracing runes into her skin. He grunted as pain sprang to life in a hundred places throughout his body. Every breath seemed to cause him terrible pain.

“You’re awake,” Tessanna said, her voice quiet but happy. No doubt the carving of runes was a large reason for that.

“Seems like it,” Jerico said, putting a hand over his eyes and praying to Ashhur for strength. The words felt hollow, but he forced through them anyway. At last he pulled his hand away to see Tessanna standing over him, a curious look on her face.

“What did he speak to you of?” she asked.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Jerico sighed.

“The usual. I’m dirt. He’s a god. Karak’s the only truth. I’ve heard it all before.” He chuckled. “Must admit, he’s found damn good ways to retell it.”

Tessanna handed him a small piece of the demons’ meat rations. He accepted it, thanked her, and then took a bite. The girl watched him eat, her arm out and dripping blood onto the fire.

“He wants you brought to him when we start the siege,” she said. “I don’t know why. I think he’s to make you watch. Many will die today.”

“Innocent life,” Jerico said as he winced through a swallow of the dry, salty meat. “You know that as well as I.”

“Does it matter?” Tessanna asked. “Beauty is fading from this world. I want away, to escape from all this. Let them die and go to Ashhur, if his eternity is so bright and pure.”

“You don’t believe that,” Jerico insisted.

Tessanna smiled sadly.

“What I believe doesn’t matter. Qurrah is all that matters. And my child. My daughter. I’ve decided a name for her, Teralyn. A pretty name, don’t you think?”

“It is beautiful,” Jerico said. “Though I weep for the world you will birth her into.”

Tessanna’s shy happiness faded at that. With cold eyes, she yanked him to his feet and shoved him westward.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Velixar is waiting.”

She led the way, glancing back occasionally to make sure he followed. The camp was surprisingly vacant. Jerico rubbed his arms and wished for something warmer for his feet than his broken boots. The army’s tents remained pitched, little banners at their tip waving gently in the soft breeze. The great city was much easier to see with the snowfall ended. War demons flew about, forming their own cloud above the city. The undead had already marched as well, forming a dead black line beyond the walls. Scattered among them were the tested, shouting songs to Karak in their fervent joy.

Standing alone, watching the coming battle from atop a hill overlooking the city, was Velixar.

“Where is Qurrah?” asked Tessanna as they approached.

“He has joined the priests in sundering the walls below,” Velixar said, his gaze lingering on the city. He glanced over at the paladin. “He carries my most important orders. Jerico has proven stubborn, but today, I believe he will finally see reason.”

“Good luck with that,” Jerico said, hopping up and down to increase his circulation. He thought of asking for a fire, but given who stood with him, he decided the risk too great they would set him afire instead of a nearby pile of wood. Tessanna stood beside Velixar and pointed to where the priests gathered.

“Is that where Qurrah is?” she asked. Velixar nodded.

“They will frighten the city, then break its walls so my undead may enter.” He pointed to a distant hill, long and sloped and covered with snow, “There is where Krieger hides with his paladin brethren. When the undead have softened the defenses, they will storm through.”

“What of the demons?”

“Ulamn wants to keep his casualties light. They’ll harass the archers and assault the castle directly while the bulk of the forces are at the walls.”

“Destroying this city only makes you that greater a murderer,” Jerico said, kicking aside snow to form a bare spot of earth to sit upon. When finished, he plopped down and curled tight to save his warmth.

“It furthers our conquest,” Karak’s prophet said. “And do not presume to know my games. You are an ignorant pawn, nothing more.”

“I thought I was to be your prized conquest,” Jerico said.

Velixar paused a moment, then grinned. Jerico thought he saw maggots crawling between his teeth, but just as quickly they were gone.

“Should that happen, you will be revered among the dark paladins, perhaps even lead them after Krieger. Until then, you are a worm.”

Jerico clenched his teeth to stop their chattering.

“I think I’ll die a worm,” he said, his voice hissing through his clenched teeth.

Tessanna sat next to him, not bothering to clear away the snow. It seemed her pale skin was impervious to the cold. She brushed his exposed skin with her fingertips. Her touch was ice.

“Let’s watch the show together,” she said, smiling. She tilted her head forward, letting her hair cascade down across her face. “If you want me, that is.”

Her touch turned to fire, seeping into his skin and chasing away the cold. His shivering stopped. His teeth stilled.

“Stay,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Pleased, Tessanna curled her knees to her chin and rested her head. The three watched as the distant people, like ants, swarmed about the streets. Even at their distance they could hear the soft ringing of alarms.

“Summon the lion,” Velixar rumbled.

The priests raised their arms to the sky. The clouds swelled with thunder and a red shape burst through them, that of a feline skull with teeth dripping blood. The drops fell from the sky and onto the city, dissipating like smoke as they struck the rooftops. Its mouth opened, and when it roared, the very walls of the city shook. Amid the noise, Velixar laughed.

Tessanna gently touched Jerico’s face, but when he glanced over, she pulled away.

“You’re beautiful in the snow,” she said.

Archers fired arrows from their walls as the undead army marched toward the center gate. As if signaled, the legion of war demons swooped down from the sky, heading straight for the men atop the walls. Without armor or significant weaponry other than their bows, they died quick deaths, many plummeting off either side to crumple into piles at the foot of the wall.

A great cry rolled over the snow with such force that snowflakes lifted into the air, creating a white mist across the plains.

“ Karak! ” it shouted, the collective force of the priests and their faith. The gates to the city crumpled, and a great gash in the earth stretched all the way from the priests to its center. The undead smashed against it, breaking wood and tearing metal. In less than a minute they were through, hacking and biting at the beleaguered defenders.

For a while the city held. The undead, while vicious and unshakable, were not skilled and wielded no weapons. Then a trumpet sounded from the hills and out came the dark paladins. They marched in rows of five, and they lifted their swords above their heads, letting the black fire burn toward the city. Their voices lifted in song.

“So beautiful,” Velixar said. His smile was ear to ear. The changing of his features quickened so that his nose sunk inward, his forehead stretched outward and his lips thinned, all in the span of seconds.

Jerico closed his eyes and said a prayer for those still within the city. In the middle of it he felt a hand gently touch his lips. He looked to see Tessanna kneeling beside him, her eyes wide, and her hand still against him.

“Not now,” she whispered. “Be silent.”

She slid closer, her left arm curling around his waist and her head gently resting on his shoulder.

The war demons flew to the castle as the dark paladins entered the gate. They crushed the defenders, fighting with skill and certainty of victory the city’s soldiers could not hope to match. When they broke, the war demons were already there, landing behind them in tight lines. The soldiers died, crushed between two forces while the rest of the demons flooded the castle through high, unguarded windows.

“The city is ours,” Velixar said. “Karak be praised.”

Jerico felt a sinking in his gut. He’d known the outcome, but he’d hoped anyway. It’d been in vain. The city had fallen in less than ten minutes. Against such a display, he wondered if even the supposed majesty and strength of Mordeina could stand against Karak’s army.

“Where is Qurrah?” Jerico asked. He saw Tessanna suddenly pull away from him as if stung.

“Entering with the priests,” Velixar said. “He has my orders. To your feet, paladin. It will not be long now.”

Jerico shrugged, then stood. He could not see the city well enough to know what Velixar had in mind, but he knew he was not going to like it. Undead swarmed through the streets, and the dark paladins hunted for any surviving defenders. The first of many fires spread. Feeling tired and distant, Jerico wondered just how much of the city would remain come nightfall.

Then Qurrah stepped outside the gates, the fiery whip in his hand distinct even at such distance. A large line of people exited the city in single file, heading straight at them. Half of the dark paladins traveled with them, guarding either side so they might not flee. Jerico felt his heart pound at the sight. Was Velixar to kill them all in front of him? Make him watch their return as undead? He prayed not, but he knew otherwise. Velixar turned and smiled, terribly amused.

“I know what you think,” he said. “You are almost correct, but not quite. You have become calloused to the pain of this world. I must awaken it in you.”

The survivors of Kinamn approached, some bundled warmly, others wearing only thin robes or breeches. Most sobbed or clutched one another as they walked. The dark paladins sang a song of triumph as they herded them along. When Qurrah arrived, leading the procession, he bowed to his master.

“I have done as you asked,” he said.

“As I expected,” Velixar said. He reached out his hand to Krieger, who handed over his sword. The black fire faded away, replaced by a soft rising of purple smoke. He gestured for the first of many to be brought forward.

“All I ask is that you do not lie,” Velixar said to Jerico. “I work with truth, for the truth is sufficient. Speak these words as long as they carry meaning.”

“What words?” Jerico asked, a knot in his throat.

“Ashhur loves you.”

Jerico’s lower lip trembled. He looked upon a young maiden, not yet twelve. Tears ran down her face, and she clutched her left arm to her chest. Fresh burns covered it. The paladin looked to her, tried to let her see the strength in his eyes and the conviction of his faith. She was scared, and so desperately he wished to comfort her, to save her.

“Ashhur loves you,” Jerico said to her, meaning every word.

Velixar cut her down.

Two dark paladins were there immediately, dragging away the body and pulling another to the front. The crowd stirred, their fear multiplying. Any thoughts of running died as the undead swarm returned from the city, surrounding them in a wall of dead flesh. A few still tried, and they died horribly, their bodies ripped to pieces and their organs strewn red across the white snow.

Next was a mother clutching a babe in her arms. Her hair was matted with blood.

“Ashhur loves you,” Jerico said.

Then another, this an elderly man with a short beard and dull gray eyes.

“Ashhur loves you.”

A young girl and her sister, holding hands and crying.

“Ashhur loves you.”

The blood spilled at his feet, melting the snow and spreading a red haze across the hilltop. Jerico felt his hands and legs go numb. Tears ran down his face, freezing hard to his skin. If he ever tried to look away, Velixar was there, clutching his neck with his horrific hand, forcing him to look. A husband and wife, arm in arm, trying to be brave. A wounded soldier, gore covering his armor. One after another, he spoke the words, the conviction in him dying with each cut of Velixar’s sword. He no longer tried to give them his strength. He had none to give.

The line seemed unending. Over a hundred died before him. His words were the last they heard. His eyes were the last they saw. He tried to give them something, a hope to cling to, but instead the words became a death knell. The words felt sick on his tongue, a terrible perversion that pierced his heart.

When Velixar missed a cut, Jerico could take it no more. He fell to his knees and sobbed as the woman collapsed before him, her arms and legs twitching as she gasped in air through the hole in her throat. It took her almost a minute to die, and Velixar made no effort to hasten it. Behind them the line of refugees sobbed and pleaded for mercy. The light in Velixar’s eyes burned brighter.

An old man was next. He wore plain robes of gray, and half the hair on his head was missing, taken by old age. Jerico looked up to him and tried to say the words. Velixar had cruelly told him to never speak a lie, and now he wondered if he could. He didn’t know the meaning anymore. He could hardly tell what he was saying. The old man looked back, and then he reached out and put a hand on Jerico’s shoulder.

“Ashhur loves you,” the old man said, just before Velixar cut him down. The man in black seethed, kicking the body.

“Get him out of here,” he said.

The next was an elderly woman, and the way she looked at the old man’s body she was most certainly his wife. Tears wetting her face, she smiled at Jerico.

“Ashhur loves you,” she said to him.

Velixar killed her as well, this time not with a blade but a spell. She collapsed, her heart bursting. The dark paladins could not carry her away fast enough. A boy with red hair and a shadow of whiskers on his upper lip approached. He’d seen Velixar’s rage, had seen his disapproval. He looked to the paladin and said the only words he could say, the only blow he could strike against his conquerors.

“Ashhur loves you,” he said just before he died.

As did the fourth. And the fifth. The line had seen his torture. They had heard his words. Suddenly it was they offering themselves to him, speaking the words he’d been forced to say, removing the condemnation he’d been forced to give.

After the seventh, Velixar snarled. He’d had enough. Far in the back, several had taken up worship songs of Ashhur, singing them loud with tears running down their faces.

“Kill them all,” he said to his minions.

The undead tore them to pieces. Jerico sobbed amid their shrieks.

“Do you yet understand?” Velixar asked.

“Even in darkness,” the paladin whispered amid his cries. “Even in darkness…”

Velixar didn’t understand, but he knew he’d brought Jerico to the very edge, then somehow lost him.

“Burn the rest of the city,” he said, turning away from the carnage. “All but the bodies. Bring them to me. I have need of them.”

“Ignore that order,” Ulamn said as he landed with a heavy gust of wind. “We will need the supplies within, as well as maps. Besides, my men would appreciate a roof over our heads while we ponder our next move.”

Velixar waited a moment, the silence thickening as he stared at the powerful war demon.

“So be it,” Velixar said. “Leave them where they lie. I will summon the dead myself. Stay the fires.”

Jerico sat up as several more demons landed, their weapons dripping blood. Tessanna put her hand on his and glared at the rest, as if reminding them that the paladin was hers and hers alone.

“Your orc approaches,” one of the demons said, his deep voice full of contempt.

“Then leave me alone to greet him,” she replied. Ever since Velixar’s display, she had grown somber and quiet, and when she spoke her voice quivered. “You have your orders. Go pillage and rape and do whatever it is you do.”

Velixar was long gone by then, walking toward the conquered city with a trail of undead behind him. They were alone, the demons and Tessanna. The thickness of the air refused to thin. Jerico squeezed Tessanna’s hand and then stood. The demons bristled, and one laughed.

“Does the paladin seek death?” the war demon asked.

Tessanna’s eyes flared wide, but Jerico shot her a look. Her face darkened, and she lowered her face so her long black hair fell across her eyes. Her tongue stayed still.

“You seem so eager to kill me,” Jerico said. “So much for war. You’re cowards, vultures. Where is my armor? Where is my mace? Would you butcher a child and then shout your victory to your kin?”

The demon pointed his bloody sword toward him, the tip hovering an inch before his neck.

“A paladin of the coward god is always a treasured kill,” the demon said. “You seem to have lost your allure as a pet. The girl no longer cuts you at night. Or does she do other things? Has she found better way for you to entertain her?”

Jerico let a smirk curl his lips.

“A treasured kill,” he said, ignoring the latter comments. “So apt to describe yourself as well.”

He stood to his full height. He stretched out his arms. Even though the sword tip hovered before him, he showed no fear in his bloodshot eyes. His face was wet with tears, yet still Jerico smiled.

“Strike at me, you’ll die,” he said. “You have your orders. Be gone from us.”

The demon looked from Jerico to Tessanna, and he saw the swirling frost that surrounded her fingertips.

“The girl has stripped you of your pride,” the demon said. “You are just a dog. One of these days, it will be the master that kicks you dead, not us.”

They took flight toward the ruins of Kinamn. Jerico let his arms fall, and he closed his eyes to hide his weakness. He had almost hoped for death. After that day, he felt ready for it. Footsteps approached, he heard them clearly, and it took little guess to whom they belonged.

“What nonsense was that?” he heard Qurrah ask.

Jerico felt the leathery whip lash out and wrap around his neck. So far the fire remained dormant, and he kept his eyes closed and his body still.

“The demons grow bolder,” Tessanna said.

“Come,” Qurrah said. “We must set up camp within the castle. I will not be left out of their plans. They will not diminish my role so easily.”

“You’re just a damn doorway to them,” Tessanna said. “They’ll ride you like a horse until your legs break and your sides burst. They’ll expect me to dance on your corpse, but they’re fools, all of them. Fools.”

The bitterness in Tessanna’s voice startled Jerico’s eyes open. The whip slid free from around his neck, for Qurrah was just as surprised and confused.

“We must go,” Qurrah said, clearly unhappy Jerico was there to witness their conversation.

“No,” Tessanna said. “I will camp here. Jerico too. Stay here with me or go to the castle. Where is it you belong, my lover?”

Qurrah’s lip curled into a sneer.

“Sleep well on the grass,” he said. Furious, he started to say more, then stopped and stormed back toward the city. Jerico watched him go, a numbness coming over him. He sat on his knees and wiped the tears from his face. He looked to the great pile of carcasses left Velixar, their bodies so mangled and torn they were useless as undead. He felt oddly detached now, as if the trauma had shaken something loose in his head. One day it would hit, overwhelm him, but for now he felt so terribly numb.

Tessanna sat next to him and took his hand again. His wariness returned, for he knew what she wanted of him, but for the moment she only held him tight. If she were drowning and he were offering her safety she might not have gripped any harder.

“I don’t hate you anymore,” she said. “Do you care?”

He said nothing, so she continued.

“I tried so hard. I still want to hate you. I thought nobody could be so perfect. You held on against my touch, my pain, my knife. It seemed nothing could break you, but something finally has. Do you know what broke you, Jerico?”

“What?” he asked, his throat dry and his skin cold.

“Your love broke you,” she said. “For the ones that died before you. People you didn’t know. People you couldn’t help. People doomed to die. You loved them anyway. I don’t know about Ashhur, I don’t know if he loved them before Velixar’s sword fell, but I know you did. You loved, and loved, until it was ready to break you, until you were on your knees sobbing, your mind a shell drained dry. I know that feeling, gods I know, I know it… I know it…”

She leaned closer to him, her forehead resting against his neck. The first of many sobs broke loose from her lips. For a long while she cried, her tears wetting his neck. She never tried to speak. Gently he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close. At last her tears slowed, and she sucked in weak gasps of air.

“I’m so tired,” she cried. “It hurts so bad, but I try to keep together, to be whole for him. I must be strong. I can never be weak, not with him. He’ll break without me. But you’ve never cared. You broke loving them, and then were made whole when they loved you in return. I’ll never be made whole. I’ll never be good enough. Mother will crush me, the gods will forsake me, and Qurrah will forever blame me.”

Jerico struggled with what to say. So much of her struggle was beyond him, but her grief was real enough. He offered the only thing he knew he could give.

“I could pray for you,” he said, his voice a whisper.

She leaned away from him, sniffing and rubbing her nose with her arm.

“No,” she said, looking so sad and terrible and beautiful. “Not for me. For my daughter. For Teralyn.”

Jerico opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He nodded. Slowly Tessanna leaned closer toward him. Her fingertips traced along his arm, then wrapped about his neck. Her head tilted. Jerico closed his eyes. Gently her lips pressed against his, and as his mouth opened he felt her tongue pressed between his teeth.

The kiss ended.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I should hate you. I don’t, and that scares me so much, so very much…”

“This is wrong,” Jerico whispered back. “You have to know that.”

“I do,” Tessanna said. “I don’t care.”

She sat atop him, her legs straddling his waist. Her arms encircled his neck. Jerico tried to remember the wild look in her eyes, how she’d thrust her dagger into his flesh, how she’d twisted and cut and bled every bit of pain out of his body. The memories were dull, like his flesh to the snow.

“I need comfort,” she whispered. “Qurrah judges me, but you don’t judge, you don’t hate, you’ve loved me all this time and now I want to love you.”

The vows he’d made screamed protest in Jerico’s mind. Love. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.

Damn it all, Jerico thought. Stop yourself, Jerico. Stop yourself. Stop. Now.

He didn’t. Arm in arm, she gently rocked back and forth. Tessanna laughed as she cried. At his climax, she gasped openmouthed, then smiled as the tears curled toward the edge of her lips. Jerico gently lifted her off and fixed his clothes. He sat hunched over, as if a great burden sat upon his shoulders.

“Never again,” he said, refusing to look her way. “We can’t do this ever again.”

“You know you will,” she said. “With you, I’m…”

“No,” he said. “Just stop. I can’t do this. I can’t fail you like this. I’m sorry, Tess. I’m so sorry.”

No matter what she said, he kept his eyes to the ground, and long into the night he stayed awake and miserable, staring at the fires burning in the conquered city, for once feeling like he deserved the miserable cold as more snow fell from the sky and bit into his flesh.

They stayed a week, gathering supplies and setting up a small garrison to hold against any of the rival lords that still remained in the land. Fresh with rest, food, and sleep, the army marched out of Kinamn, once more giving chase after the remnants of Neldar.

8

I t seemed years since Qurrah had looked upon the gods’ bridges, but there he was, standing before the simple but elegant structure spanning the Rigon River. He and Tessanna had been alone then. No army, no Velixar, no priests or gods. Just the two of them. They had been cold and hurt, the death of Aullienna still a fresh wound on both their souls, but with each other to hold, they had survived the pain.

“Would you even let me hold you now?” he wondered aloud. The rest of the army still slept, the sun having not yet banished the stars and moon. Whatever closeness he had with Tessanna was gone. Something was in the way, and he needed to figure out what. Was it something he had said or done? Was it the paladin?

“Solitude is often the best way to solve one’s problems,” Preston said, approaching from the direction of the slumbering army. “But discussing them with friends also helps.”

“I would hardly call you friend,” Qurrah said, pointedly keeping his stare locked on the bridge. “I hold better friendship with the worms beneath the soil, Preston.”

Preston chuckled, not bothered by the refusal to use his adopted name.

“You don’t like me. Fair enough. Your loyalty to Velixar is near unshakable. I understand, I really do. For years we treated a single message from him like the divine word of Karak himself.”

“I was his apprentice,” Qurrah said. “And I assure you, Karak speaks through him.”

“How do you know?” Preston asked. “He has set himself as ruler of an army that will soon crush all resistance. If he closes the portal after Mordan’s destruction, who will stop him from emerging King of all Dezrel?”

Qurrah crossed his arms and glared.

“You’re a fool if you think that is what he desires,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“The paladin,” Preston said, glancing back to the camp. “He still lives. We both know he should have bled out months ago.”

“He keeps Tessanna happy,” Qurrah said.

“I’m sure he does,” Preston said with a smirk.

“What are you implying, priest?” Qurrah asked, his hand gripping the handle of his whip.

“I have watched carefully,” Preston said. “And they are often alone. Very often. Why is it you no longer sleep at her side, Qurrah? Is it because someone else has taken your place?”

The whip lashed the ground, erupting in flame. The half-orc’s look promised death.

“You insult me with your insipid logic and blatant lies,” he said. “The maggots in the fields hear Karak’s word more clearly than you. There is more wisdom in a pile of shit. Be gone from me, or I will tear the bones from your flesh and cast them into the river.”

Preston laughed.

“Such anger,” he said. “Is it all for me?”

Qurrah watched him return to the camp. His whip burned the cold earth, charring black the remaining bits of grass. His entire insides heaved and spun. The idea of losing Tessanna to another man infuriated him. He had avoided the idea, but now it was in the open and he could not deny it. He was losing her. Just how far from him she was, he didn’t know.

He put away his whip, hoping Karak’s vengeance would soon fall upon Preston. If it didn’t, then he himself would have to bring forth punishment. First, he needed to make things right with Tessanna. He hurried back to their camp, where Tessanna huddled before a fire on the outskirts of the encampment. Jerico slept next to her. The very sight of him so close to her filled his heart with jealousy.

“Morning, lover,” she said, no emotion in her voice.

“It is time,” he said, pointing to the paladin. “He needs to be dealt with, one way or the other.”

Tessanna drew her knife and twirled its point against her finger.

“Are you telling me what to do, Qurrah?”

The half-orc snarled.

“Damn it, Tess! Why are you doing this? Why do you keep him alive?” His voice softened. “What does he offer you that I do not?”

At this, she tilted her head and stared as if perplexed. She seemed completely unaffected by his rage.

“He speaks of things I’ve never believed,” she said. “He offers things I don’t understand. But I want to break him, make him as I am. And I intend to take pleasure in the making.”

“You’ve slept with him,” Qurrah said, quieter. In the silence that followed he begged for denial, firm and sincere. But Tessanna would not give him even that.

“Does it matter if I did?” she asked. Still apathetic. Still emotionally dead. Qurrah could not take any more. He knocked the knife from her hand, grabbed her by the neck and lifted her to a stand.

“Don’t you dare treat me like this,” he said, his face inches from hers. “Not after all we’ve lost for one another. The sacrifices we’ve both made.”

There was a time she would have been excited by such a display of domination and power. But not anymore. Anger flared in her eyes, and rage replaced apathy.

“Let go of me!” she shrieked. Her hands slammed against his chest, magical strength flowing through them. He dropped her as pain spread throughout his body. He doubled over onto his knees, unable to stand. Tessanna’s whole body shook as if unable to contain her emotions.

“You’re weak now!” she screamed. “Look what Karak has done to you! Your skin sags, your hair grays, and your eyes sink like stones. You are not my Qurrah. You are a shell. Even worse, you bastard, you think it my fault. Either accept your sins or deny them. Do not bear the burden and then cast the blame to me!”

She licked her lips and pointed at Jerico, who still slumbered. She had cast a spell upon him, and knew he wouldn’t wake for another hour.

“He is but a plaything to me. He gives me comfort. I am yours forever, Qurrah. I bear your child! Why is that not enough? Why am I never enough?”

Qurrah struggled to his feet, his arms clutching his stomach as he spat black spittle.

“Forgive me for my jealousy,” he said, his raspy voice a whisper. “Forgive me for not accepting you as you are. And forgive me for letting Karak turn us into this. But do not treat me like a child. I see the way you look at him. He is a thorn between us, Tess, and he needs to be removed. Kill him, or set him free.”

He turned to go, then stopped.

“When the sun rises,” said Qurrah, “the choice will no longer be yours.”

He wandered off, coughing and clutching his chest. When he was gone Tessanna lunged for her knife, grabbed its hilt, and stabbed deep into her wrist. She cried out in pain, tears running down her face, but she still smiled. The pain helped her focus. Helped her decide. She yanked out the blade and sucked on the blood. She hated hurting so much. She hated being confused. She had to stop it. Had to end it.

Q urrah entered the large tent Krieger slept in. A snap of his fingers and Krieger’s dreams filled with gnashing teeth and vague, shapeless beings clawing at his arms. He gasped twice, then woke.

“What are you doing here?” he asked upon seeing Qurrah.

“Gather your best soldiers,” the half-orc told him. “When the first light of the sun reaches our camp, you may kill the paladin. I will not stop you, and neither will Velixar.”

“About bloody time,” Krieger said, getting out of bed and reaching for his armor.

“Indeed,” Qurrah said before slipping back out into the night.

A wave of her hand and Jerico awoke. He sat up and looked about, still groggy.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Go,” Tessanna said. “Take your shield from the carriage and leave.”

“This a trick,” Jerico asked as he stumbled to his feet.

“No trick,” she said. She tried not to watch him, but did anyway. He slipped his shield onto his back and turned to her.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Go quickly, before I decide otherwise,” she said. “We’re on the outskirts of the camp. You should be able to run several miles before any realize you are gone.”

Jerico bowed, not wanting to question his sudden good fortune. Just before he left, he turned to her and knelt. He took her bleeding wrist into his hand. She watched as he closed his eyes and prayed. Healing magic flowed into her, sealing the wound.

“You don’t need the pain,” he told her. “Nor the blood.”

She pulled her arm to her chest, fighting a sudden flare of anger. He turned to go west, but then stopped.

“The promise of Karak is emptiness,” he said. “There is no life in it. I hold little hope for your child, Tessanna, but I shall pray for you both just the same.”

He vanished into the night, running as fast as his sore legs could go. Tessanna clutched her knife and stared at her wrist. She placed its edge against her skin, but for once could not bring herself to cut. Inside her was life, she thought. So instead she put down the knife and placed both hands on her belly. Life, she thought.

Life.

Jerico ran.

He didn’t get far before he saw someone waiting for him, wearing deep black robes, their color darker than the night. He reached for his shield, determined to die fighting than return as a prisoner.

“You have no need to worry,” said the stranger, his voice a hiss. “I have one question, that is all.”

Qurrah lowered his hood, his eyes bloodshot, his tears running down both scars on his face. Jerico slowed to a walk, still holding his shield.

“Ask your question,” Jerico said. “I will answer honestly.”

“Did you sleep with her?” Qurrah asked as Jerico passed by.

“Yes,” Jerico said when they were shoulder to shoulder. He felt his shame grow anew. “But only once.”

Qurrah looked as if he’d been struck ill.

“Be gone from here,” he said. “Should I see you again, I will kill you.”

Jerico ran.

Q urrah returned as the sun was rising. Approaching from the other side of their camp were Krieger and his men, armor polished and swords drawn. Only Tessanna waited for them, standing before a dead fire.

“Qurrah!” she said, rushing to him when she saw him. He took her in his arms, shocked by how desperately she clung to him.

“You sent him away,” he said.

“I love you,” she said. “Not enough to kill him, but enough to send him away. Does that please you, Qurrah? Please, tell me it does.”

He held her tight and kissed her forehead.

“Of course,” he said, but his words were hollow.

Krieger’s dark paladins surrounded the camp. They looked but saw no sign of Jerico. Krieger stepped forward, pointing one of his swords at Qurrah.

“You promised me the paladin come the rise of the sun,” he said. “Well, the sun has come. Where is Jerico?”

“Gone,” Tessanna said. “Escaped into the night.”

Krieger slammed his swords together, letting their clang ring loud in the morning air.

“Don’t lie to me, woman,” he shouted. “You let him go! You fucked him, didn’t you? You had your fun and then let him go, all while the blood of my men stains his hands!”

The commotion stirred through the camp. Preston soon arrived, a dozen of his priests with him. Qurrah glared at their intrusion.

“To release a paladin of Ashhur so he may escape execution is a very serious crime,” Preston said. “Punishable by death.”

“We don’t live under your laws,” Qurrah said, slipping a hand into his pouch of bones at his hip.

“That’s the truth,” Krieger muttered.

“You march among us but do not count yourself subject to the laws we obey,” Preston shouted, more to the gathering crowd than to Qurrah and Tessanna. “You act as if your power gives you importance, and that power puts you above all others, above even the very word of Karak himself!”

“ I am the word of Karak!” Velixar roared. Priests scattered to give him passage as he approached. “Yet you question me with every breath you take!”

“You are the word no longer,” Preston challenged. “You have turned your back to Karak. You have insulted his laws, his priests, and his very principles. He is order, pure order, and you are nothing but an agent of chaos.”

Velixar curled his hands, and bolts of shadow flew from them, straight for Preston. He slammed an open palm to the ground. The shadows scattered as a shockwave of air and sound rolled in all directions. Qurrah lashed out with his whip, but several priests protected their appointed Melorak, using their meager magic to summon black shields.

“They are traitors to Karak,” Preston shouted. “Strike them down! Show your faith!”

Krieger’s men remained where they were, waiting for word from their leader. The dark paladin shook his head.

“Jerico should have died the very moment we laid eyes upon him,” he said.

“Show some wisdom,” Velixar said. “You know who I am, what I can do.”

“I know who you were,” Krieger said. “Kill them.”

Before they could follow the order, a giant spear landed among them, burying into the dirt. Over a hundred war demons landed, their weapons at ready. Ulamn landed beside Qurrah, and he pointed his gigantic sword at the dark paladins that surrounded them.

“I have no time for such squabbles,” he said, his voice booming. “Nor your laws and punishments. I will not be stranded here on this young, tiny world. As long as Qurrah and Velixar hold open the portal, they are under my protection. If any question this, speak now! I would hear your challenge.”

None dared speak. Ulamn turned to Velixar.

“You and your apprentice stay among my soldiers from now on. No arguments.”

Ulamn signaled, and his soldiers surrounded the three, flanking them in a protection of wing, muscle, and armor. Velixar offered one last threat before he left with the demons.

“Karak will suffer your blasphemy for only a little longer,” he said. “And I pray that your death will be by my hand.”

Ulamn led them away. Preston hurried to Krieger’s side.

“We must move fast,” he said. “The paladin cannot be far. Send out your men!”

“Get away from me,” Krieger said, brushing the high priest aside. “I know how to do Karak’s will.”

Within five minutes teams of riders rode west into the hillside.

All the while, Jerico ran.

9

T he last survivors of Neldar were a week from Mordeina when the first messenger arrived.

“Queen Annabelle Baedan, ruler of all of Mordan, extends greetings from her throne,” the man said as he saluted from atop his horse. “She has heard of your plight and extends her hand in friendship. Come to the capital. Mordeina will greet you with open arms.”

“It is a kind offer,” King Antonil said, seated around a campfire with his soldiers. “I thank you. Return to your queen, and tell her we accept her generosity.”

Antonil turned to the Eschaton, who had gathered around him when the messenger arrived. “It appears Queen Annabelle is more welcoming than Neyvar Sinistel,” he said.

“Guess so,” Harruq said. “But queen? Thought Mordan had a king.”

Antonil chuckled. “So did I. But is it surprising things change while you march for months across the wild?”

“Course not,” said Tarlak. He removed his hat and scratched the top of his head. His bald spot had filled over the past months, but the habit remained. “I’ll spread word to the people. They’re already excited as is about nearing civilization, but to be greeted so warmly!”

The Eschaton bowed, and Antonil gave them leave. Ever since they had returned from their excursions with Dieredon, the king had treated them like brethren. He consulted them for advice, shared his worries, and relied on them heavily. Tarlak, having needed coin to endure his cold relationship with former King Vaelor, found all this a fantastic improvement, even with the drastically reduced amount of gold.

“So who’s this Queen Annabelle?” Harruq asked as they weaved through the refugees.

“King Baedan’s wife,” Aurelia said. “I think I remember her. She was just a girl when we fled here, twelve or thirteen perhaps.”

“Maybe she’ll be more forgiving than her husband,” Harruq offered.

“Maybe,” Aurelia said.

They stopped at their tent, which was just as meager as the others around them. They had declined special treatment, suffering in the cold like everyone else. The blankets and food the elves had given them were exquisite, and had saved many a life as the winter tore on. Harruq himself had grown rather attached to his bedroll, which had a slit so he could slide inside like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

“I’m worried about Tar,” the half-orc said as he knelt down and started rolling up his belongings.

“Why’s that?” Aurelia asked, busying herself with breaking down their tent. The day was young, and all around others were preparing for hours of marching.

“Because of Delysia,” he said. “He’s not grieved, not since we left Veldaren. Been damn near cheery, even. Now Haern, I know he’s just as hurt as Tar, can tell just by how he looks at me, but the wizard…”

He shook his head. Aurelia stood, kissed his cheek, and returned to her work.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said. “I have an idea why he’s been like he has.”

“What’s that?” he asked, but was only given a shake of her head.

“Just keep packing,” she said. “If I’m right, I’ll tell you later.”

She found him half a mile ahead of the throng of people, trotting along with staff in hand. Tarlak heard her approach and turned, a smile on his face.

“Weather’s finally warming up,” he said. “Course, it waits until we’re already across all the nations, but hey, who am I to complain?”

“You’re the perfect one to complain,” Aurelia said, smiling as well. “You’re so good at it.”

“Bah, just an innate gift. It’s something all us wizards have.”

Aurelia walked beside him, her arms crossed over her chest. Her smile faded a little as she tried to find a gentle way to ease into her desired topic.

“Tar,” she finally said, “we’ve been a little worried about you.”

“Worried?” he asked, his smile weakening. “Why’s that?”

“Your sister,” she said. “She was dear to us, but you most of all. We each grieve in our own way, but…”

“But what” Tarlak asked. “I haven’t wept enough? Bawled and hated the world like a moping half-orc I know?”

Aurelia halted. “That is uncalled for.”

Tarlak sighed and stared at the ground, his forehead resting against the top of his staff.

“I’m sorry, Aurry,” he said. “But look behind us. You see that huge throng? All of them have lost someone, some their entire families. Parents without children, husbands without wives. I lost my sister, and unlike all of them, I was given time to bury her.”

He pulled his head from his staff and chuckled.

“Too many rely on me to lead. Even a new king seeks my judgment. I’ve not the time, nor the luxury to grieve. Ashhur was kind to give me the moments I had, with friends and family, to say goodbye. I cannot ask for more.”

Aurelia put her arms around him, and he accepted her hug.

“You’re sweet,” he told her. “But if anyone needs watched over, it’s Haern.”

“He loved her, didn’t he?” Aurelia asked as she pulled back and smoothed her hair.

“Like a sister,” Tarlak said. “But more. They might have married one day, had he ever found the guts to ask me for permission.” The mage looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I know,” Aurelia said. “He blames Harruq. I was hoping his anger had faded.”

Tarlak pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “Like I said, I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

T hey camped less than a day from Mordeina, and the mood was beyond festive. Tarlak used up the last of the topaz the elves had given him to create a great feast. Bread rolls and biscuits glazed with honey, slabs of ham, and cobs of corn lined an entire table he had somehow pulled out of his hat. A snap of his fingers, and the remaining water turned to wine.

“You’re a miracle worker,” Harruq said, winking at him.

“I try,” Tarlak said, stuffing a roll into his mouth. All around people sang and danced. More than a cup or two was raised high to toast the health of King Antonil. The Eschaton gathered around the king and his favored generals, who in turn toasted the health of the mercenaries.

“You just keep pretending we’re doing this for free,” Tarlak said as he accepted the toast. “You’ve got one monster of a debt.”

“And we’ll pay it tenfold,” Antonil said. “And I’ll relocate your silly tower to the city, so I don’t have to run so far in the cold and rain every time I need you.”

Harruq took a swig of wine and glanced north, where in the distance he could make out faint lights from the city of Mordeina.

“What’s it like?” he asked.

“Been there only once,” Tarlak said. “Beautiful place, and far better fortified than Veldaren. No offense, Antonil.”

“Better be careful how you talk around a king,” Haern said, smirking at the wizard.

“I’ll throw him in the stocks later,” Antonil said. “But continue, for I have never seen the city, either.”

“Well, when Ashhur built the city, he surrounded it with a gigantic wall of white stone, five men wide. But evidently that wasn’t enough for our beloved deity, so he built a second wall around the first.”

Tarlak drew a few lines in the dirt to illustrate his point.

“Try to climb over the first wall, maybe even blow a hole in it, and you’ve still got a full second wall to get past,” he said. “And even worse, the gates to the city are cattycornered. Break down one and you’ve got to turn and march a good hundred feet to the second, and of course, the gap between the walls is so thin no battering ram is going to fit.”

“Sounds impressive,” Antonil said. “We will be in need of such defenses.”

“Winged attackers ruin a lot of the fun,” Tarlak said. “But any troops on the ground are doomed. Archers line that inner wall, and they’ve got retractable ladders from one wall to the other in case they need to retreat. Needless to say, no one’s ever successfully laid siege to Mordeina, not even Karak.”

“No matter how big their storehouses,” Aurelia said, “if they try to starve us out it would not take very long, not with thousands of people pouring into the city.”

“Let’s hope they’re too overconfident for that,” Antonil said. “For all our sakes.”

“Enough of this,” Tarlak said. “We worry about dying tomorrow, but tonight! Tonight is for fun!”

He downed the rest of his wine and bowed to the rest.

“I hear music in the distance,” he said. “And there’s bound to be a pretty lass dancing to it.”

“I better go with,” Haern said as he stood. “I’d hate for him to act too big a fool.”

“But that’s what I’m good at,” they heard Tarlak argue as the two vanished into a sea of torches and revelry.

“I best see to my men as well,” Sergan said, hefting his ax onto his shoulder. “And crack some heads that get a bit too much drink in them, if you know what I mean.”

“Go easy on them,” Antonil said, grinning. “I want my soldiers to make a good impression when they enter the city, and I doubt they’ll look too impressive covered with black eyes and broken noses.”

“As you wish,” Sergan said with a bow.

That left just Harruq and Aurelia with the king, who leaned back and chewed on his lip.

“Where’s the paladin?” he asked.

“Lathaar’s out somewhere with Mira,” Harruq said, grabbing a slab of meat from a plate between them. “He’s not much for the whole drinking and celebrating thing, I gather.”

“I see. And the Ash Guild?”

Harruq shrugged and looked to Aurelia.

“I don’t know,” she said. “My guess is they’ve snuck into Mordeina. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already setting up shop. I pity the thieves they set their sights on.”

Antonil nodded, chewing his lip harder.

“I’ve received notice from the queen,” he said. “She somehow discovered an elf travels with us. She wants to meet you, Aurelia. I don’t know why, but she requested your immediate presence when we enter the city.”

“I will not go alone,” she said, taking Harruq’s hand.

“You won’t,” Antonil assured her. “I will be there, as will Tarlak and your husband. I don’t know if she shares her husband’s hatred of your kind, but if she does, I won’t stand for it. If I must, I will take my people and leave.”

Aurelia glanced about the camp, hearing the songs and seeing the cheer.

“There will not be many that go with you,” she said.

“Even if I go alone, I will still go.” He stood and bowed to her. “My thanks to you both. You’ve saved many lives, and given all of us hope against the chasing darkness. Ashhur watch over you.”

He retired to his tent. Aurelia looped her arms around Harruq and leaned close.

“I’m worried,” she said. “They’ve all had hard months of travel. I don’t want them to suffer more just because of me.”

The half-orc kissed her cheek. “Nonsense,” he said. “It’d be because of someone else’s ignorance, not you. And you better believe I’m not staying there without you. Well, not unless the food is really good and they have those places with all the girls where you can…”

She elbowed him, and as he grunted she pushed him to the ground and laughed.

“You’d miss me in a heartbeat and you know it, no matter how good the food or pretty and easy the girls.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harruq said, grabbing her arm and pulling her atop him. “See what you’ve done to me? Big tough orc, and I can’t stand being away from you for a moment.”

She kissed him, then winked. “You love it.”

Harruq sighed. “I know.”

Aurelia snapped her fingers, and a small fire burst to life on the grass beside them. The two cuddled beside it, each anxious about coming day.

M ost were packing before the sun had risen, in spite of their hangovers. Mordeina awaited them, filled with food, comfort, companionship and warmth. After months of hardship, it seemed paradise was but a few miles away. When the sun finally rose, they began. Antonil led the way, his crown shining and his armor freshly polished.

An hour later the city came into view. First they saw the walls, gigantic and towering. They could make out soldiers walking across the tops between enormous banners showing a sword breaking against a shield, the symbol of the Baedan family line. Two doors made of wood and iron flung open as they approached. They heard trumpets sound, and it renewed their excitement. The only structure taller than the walls was the castle, it too made of the same white stone. Six towers were evenly spaced within the walls, all waving different flags, and it was their spires they saw as they approached. Each had the symbol and color of previous kings and queens.

“I always wondered why King Vaelor was so jealous of Mordan,” Antonil said to Aurelia as they approached. “Now I understand.”

More trumpets sounded. Soldiers marched from the outer gate, holding their weapons high and cheering them on.

“That’s some welcome,” Harruq said.

“Stay by my side,” Antonil told them. “I don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

“No worries,” Harruq said. “I tend to stick out.”

As they neared the gates, a high ranking commander stepped forward from the soldiers and saluted.

“King Antonil Copernus,” the man shouted. “Her majesty requests an audience with your most trusted.”

“Follow me,” Antonil said to the Eschaton. He drew his sword and held it before him, and the people of Neldar cheered and cried his name.

“I am he, King of Neldar,” Antonil shouted amid the noise. The commander saw him and saluted once more. Soldiers rushed ahead and surrounded him, ushering him ahead of the rest. Tarlak, Aurelia, and Harruq hurried after, the guards giving them curious looks but allowing them by.

They passed through the gates and immediately turned left, to where the second gate was swung inward. The passage between the two walls was narrow, and Harruq kept looking to the sky to fight his claustrophobia. Eight people could stand side to side within the gap, and at sight of the archers atop either wall, he couldn’t imagine being an attacker against the city.

“Queen Baedan has been looking forward to your arrival for some time,” the commander said as they walked. “Of course, she had hoped for more pleasant circumstances, but we will do what we can to help your people survive.”

They passed through the second set of doors and into the city. Tarlak whistled and nudged Harruq, pointing at the great expanse of white stone houses stretching to either side. A massive road ran straight through the heart of the city to the castle. Along either side of the road, large slabs of rectangular stone formed walls in front of each alley or street. Any army passing through would be funneled through, with only a handful of guards required to block off the gaps. Waiting at the end of the road was the castle, its six towers filled with windows, and in each window was an archer. Antonil shook his head, wondering how many more might have survived the siege of Veldaren if he’d had such defenses. There was no mistaking it; Ashhur had built Mordeina for war.

“We’ve planned several spaces for your people to live,” the commander continued as they approached the castle. The road was empty, with soldiers filling the gaps in the center wall to keep the curious away. “The land between the walls goes for a mile in both directions, and should suffice for a camp for the healthier among you. We also have a few stretches of field on the western side of the city that you may camp upon. Many of our citizens have volunteered their homes as well. Of course, royalty such as yourself is welcome to stay in our castle.”

“This generosity is far beyond anything I could have hoped for,” Antonil said, meaning every word.

“Her majesty has a kind heart,” the commander said. “We will not leave so many to starve, not on our doorstep. We have wagons coming in with wheat and corn from the outlying towns. Our storehouses in the city are plentiful as well. Do not feel yourself a burden. Should these dark days pass, a renewed friendship between our kingdoms would be well worth the price.”

The castle’s doors swung open, a roaring lion molded from black steel on their fronts. Harruq winced at the sight. He remembered Tarlak mentioning once that priests of Karak were far more open in Mordan than they had been in Neldar. He wondered just how much of that was true.

At first the hallway was narrow, with two separate turns to slow attackers, and then suddenly they entered a gigantic chamber, twenty times taller than any man there. Columns decorated with banners ran along either side of the red carpet. At the other side of the room, sitting in her throne atop a raised dais, waited the queen.

“Please, for all that is holy, behave,” Tarlak said to Harruq.

“I’m not an idiot,” Harruq grumbled.

The queen stood. She wore an elegant dress of lavender and a silver crown atop her auburn hair. Her skin had a few wrinkles that seemed to vanish when she smiled, and her eyes sparkled with life.

“Your majesty,” the commander said as he saluted. “I present to you King Antonil Copernus of Neldar, and his servants.”

“Servants?” Harruq muttered. Aurelia jabbed him with her elbow to silence him.

“We are most humbled, your majesty,” Antonil said as he bowed on one knee. “I can only dream of repaying the kindness you have shown us.”

Queen Annabelle dismissed the compliment with a wave of her hand.

“Too long our nations have acted as strangers to one another, more prepared for war than friendship.” She was smiling at Antonil, but her eyes glanced to Aurelia, who kept her head low and her face to the floor.

“Your friend,” she said, gesturing to the elf. “What is her name?”

“Aurelia Tun,” Aurelia answered, shaking her head so that her pointed ears were clearly visible through her hair. “Elf of Dezerea.”

At that Annabelle winced, and Antonil’s heart doubled in pace. Never had he heard Aurelia introduce herself as such. He had no delusions as to why she did so now.

“Dezerea,” the queen said, her smile vanishing from her painted face. “That is a name I have not heard in years. But Tun does not sound like an elvish name. What was it before you crossed the rivers?”

She took Harruq’s hand in hers and met the queen’s gaze.

“Thyne,” she said.

The corner of Annabelle’s mouth quivered as she fought off a second frown.

“Your parents killed a thousand of my husband’s soldiers,” the queen said. “My libraries have books devoted to the sheer power and tactics demonstrated at Bloodbrick Bridge. Tell me, Aurelia Tun, daughter of Kindren and Aullienna Thyne, do you hate me?”

Annabelle carefully approached the elf, taking each step with a gentle pause. Harruq winced, his wife’s grip on his hand excruciating. He could see Tarlak and Antonil waiting for an answer, each one tensed as if someone were about to strike.

“No,” Aurelia said at last. “I have done my best to forgive. I bear you no anger, nor blame.”

Queen Annabelle closed her eyes and shook her head. Then, to their shock, she fell to one knee.

“I was but a child,” she said, “married because of my bloodline to King Marcus Baedan. I held no sway then, but I still feel his shame. Aurelia, elf of Dezerea, will you accept my apology, and the apology of the Mordan humans, for what we have done to your people and your home?”

Aurelia’s mouth dropped open. She didn’t know what to say. Harruq nudged her, and she shook her head as if coming out of a daze.

“I am not royalty,” she said. “Nor am I revered among my own kind. I do not know if I am worthy to accept such an apology, but I will accept it in the spirit it is offered. Please stand, your majesty, you need not kneel to me.”

Queen Annabelle stood, and she beamed at the elf.

“I have long wanted to atone for my husband’s ignorance,” she said, returning to her throne. “But I have not known how. Perhaps you can help me with such an enormous task.”

She looked to her commander, who stood to the side of her throne.

“You may send in my advisors,” she told him. “We have much to discuss.”

The commander bowed and exited a door to the side of the chamber. Harruq kissed Aurelia on the cheek, chuckling at how flustered she seemed.

“I was prepared for exile, imprisonment, even her to execute me,” Aurelia whispered to him.

“Didn’t expect that, eh?” Harruq asked.

“No. Not one bit.”

Tarlak leaned in and joined the whispering.

“Think you can use a bit of her guilt to get us a fancy room?” he asked. “I’m pretty tired of sleeping in a tent.”

“Shush,” said Aurelia.

“I hate to bring attention to darker matters,” Queen Annabelle said, “but I must ask more about the tragedy that brings you to my city. My scouts warned of your arrival, but have had little more to offer me about the fate of Neldar.”

“An army marched upon our city,” Antonil said. “One of all vile races. Orcs, hyena-men, wolf-men, bird-men, and even the dead, assaulted our city. They were led by a man named Velixar, one who has long been a servant of Karak.”

Advisors poured into the room, twelve by Harruq’s count. Most wore elegant clothes and abundant jewelry, but one in particular stood out. He wore a simple gray robe, and hanging from his neck was a pendant shaped like the skull of a lion.

“Karak?” that advisor asked. “For what reason would Karak want your city destroyed?”

Antonil glared.

“And who are you to question the word of a king?” he asked.

“Silence, Hayden,” Annabelle said. “You show our guests disrespect unfitting of a priest.”

Harruq shifted side to side, his hands on the hilts of his swords. Next to him, he saw Tarlak’s fists clench white, tiny sparks flicking off his knuckles.

“Karak has tried several times to break through the walls of our city,” Antonil continued. “And there is no doubt as to whose banner they marched with. His priests and paladins were among them, and killed many of my people as they fled.”

Hayden shook his head, looking as if he were correcting a child.

“Many wear robes and carry sigils, but that doesn’t mean they follow or even understand what Karak teaches. Why would our beloved deity seek to destroy the city crafted with his hands?”

Antonil reached for his sword, but Aurelia grabbed his wrist.

“I will not be treated like a fool,” the king said.

“Rude as he may be, he questions wisely,” Annabelle said. “Karak has always desired order. What order is there in the destruction and ransacking of a city? Of throwing your entire nation to anarchy and lawlessness?”

“Forgive me,” Harruq said, doing his best to be polite. “But I don’t think you’ve seen the order he desires, your majesty.”

“And you have?” Hayden asked.

“I once served under Velixar, he who calls himself the mouth of Karak,” the half-orc said, his voice growing louder. “One who speaks Karak’s will. One who has served since the very birth of your race. I have seen what he desires. Nowhere in this land is one more faithful to Karak, and nowhere in this land is there a man, dead or alive, that is more dangerous.”

The advisors clamored amongst themselves, and Hayden clutched his pendant of the lion and waved his hands in a pattern symbolic for banishment. Guards rushed to either side of them. They had not drawn their weapons yet, but they were ready to.

“Enough,” Queen Annabelle shouted. They quieted. “Whoever leads this army is irrelevant. If an army of vile creatures marches to our gates, we will slay them. We will take back Veldaren, and rebuild it to its former glory.”

“It’s not just those creatures,” Tarlak said, waiting for the queen to acknowledge him before continuing. “Winged soldiers join their ranks, numbering in the hundreds. They come from a land beyond our own, through a gate opened in the very heart of Veldaren.”

“Winged soldiers?” Annabelle asked. “Tell me you jest.”

“Wings will bypass all our defenses,” one advisor on her left said.

“Our archers can shoot even the tiniest of birds from the sky,” said another on her right. “We have no need to fear any army, regardless if it travels by land or air.”

Queen Annabelle rose from her throne, and her advisors quieted again.

“Go to your people, King Copernus,” she said. “They will need you. I will discuss with my advisors and generals on how to best prepare our defenses. You have given me much to ponder. For now, I bid you farewell. Commander, please escort them.”

“That could have gone better,” Harruq muttered as they were led out the castle.

“Yeah,” Tarlak said, glancing at Aurelia. “But also far worse.”

M uch to Tarlak’s chagrin, Antonil turned down an offer to stay inside the castle.

“Stay among the people,” the wizard muttered as the Eschaton hunkered beside one of many fires that filled the gap between the two walls. “Since when do I belong among the people?”

“You’d hate life inside that castle,” Lathaar said, munching on a piece of bread that soldiers of Mordan had been passing out for the past hour. “You’d have to watch your tongue the whole while. Complain like you are now, and you’d be in the stocks within the hour.”

“Complaining is illegal here?” Tarlak said, raising an eyebrow.

“I believe they would classify it as disrespecting a gift of her majesty,” the paladin said.

“You know you love us anyway,” Aurelia said, comfortably snuggled inside Harruq’s arms. “You’d take cold ground and a fire with us over fluffy pillows and a bed any day.”

Tarlak shrugged. “Depends. Can we toss a girl in with those pillows? Maybe a pretty elven lass?”

Harruq threw a piece of bread at him. Tarlak ducked, twirled his fingers, and as the bread sailed over his head it suddenly spun around and headed right back at the half-orc. Harruq batted it aside with his hand, sending it straight into king Antonil’s lap.

“Forgiveness please, your majesty,” Tarlak said, bowing low. “I would not dare show disrespect of such wheaty nature.”

Antonil picked up the piece of bread, sniffed it, and then ate it.

“Still tastes fine,” he said. “And please, while I don’t mind such impressive displays of respect here, try to behave yourselves around the Mordan people. I should attempt to be a bit more…”

“Kingly?” Harruq asked.

“That’ll suffice,” Antonil said.

“Where’s Haern?” Harruq asked, glancing around. “He’s usually pretty good with all this royalty stuff.”

“I haven’t seen him since we left the castle,” Tarlak said. “He’s plotting something, I just don’t know what.”

“I’m hurt,” Haern said, suddenly appearing between Tarlak and Lathaar. The assassin shifted his cloaks and sat, a piece of bread in hand. “You should know by now I don’t plot. I scheme.”

“Well, schemer, where have you been?” Tarlak asked.

Haern took a bite and thought as he chewed.

“I’ve been trying to locate Deathmask and his ilk,” he said. “I feel they’re mostly our responsibility, and I’d prefer they behave.”

Tarlak looked at his friend, spying a red stain across the bottom of his cloaks.

“There’s blood on you,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Is there?” Haern asked. He continued eating. Tarlak rolled his fingers, trying to get him to say more, but he refused. Giving up, Tarlak tossed his hands to the air and then stood.

“That’s it, I’m going to go mingle,” he said. “Too much sitting around. Used to travel and danger. This peaceful life is going to kill me.”

“I should go as well,” Antonil said. “I need to visit the rest of my people camped among the fields. Care to escort me, Mr. Eschaton?”

“Of course,” Tarlak said, slipping his arm through Antonil’s. “Is this respectful enough? You have the prettiest blue eyes.”

When Antonil reached for his sword, Tarlak let him go, a feigned look of disappointment on his face.

“Wrong kind of escort,” Harruq shouted after them as they left for the inner gate.

He couldn’t tell for sure, but Harruq thought Tarlak made a rather rude gesture with his hand.

“S o what’s really going on?” Tarlak asked once the two were far enough from the camp.

“Am I that obvious?” Antonil asked.

“Maybe,” Tarlak said. “What’s bothering you?”

The king glanced about and lowered his voice.

“The priest of Karak,” he said as they walked. “I fear his influence over the queen.”

“He’s just one advisor,” Tarlak said.

“I’ve seen what just one advisor can do,” Antonil said. “She listens to him. Even worse, priests of Karak mingle with my people, giving away food and clothes. I don’t trust them.”

“So what do you want from my mercenaries?” Tarlak asked, lowering his voice as well.

“There’s a small temple to Ashhur not far from here. Seek them out, and uncover what you can about Hayden and his priests. When Karak’s army marches to these walls, I don’t want any spies in our midst throwing open the gates or turning the hearts of our soldiers.”

“I’ll look into it,” Tarlak said. “And for your own good, you never had this discussion, and we will not have any further discussion. Consider the matter handled.”

“You’re a good friend,” the king said.

“And an expensive one, too,” Tarlak said, grinning. “Don’t you forget that.”

10

T arlak waited until nightfall to move out. He thought about bringing Lathaar, but chose Harruq instead. The paladin’s sense of honor could have proved difficult.

“What the Abyss do you want?” Harruq muttered as Tarlak prodded him awake.

“Quiet,” the wizard ordered. “And don’t wake your wife.”

“Too late,” Aurelia said, stirring beside him. “Where are you taking my husband?”

“Nowhere,” Harruq grumbled. “I’m going back to bed.”

“No you’re not,” Tarlak said, kicking him. “And be quiet. I’m on orders from the king, now get your swords and let’s go.”

“I’m going with,” Aurelia said.

“You’re too conspicuous,” Tarlak argued.

“And a giant half-orc isn’t?”

Tarlak bit his lip. “Good point. All right, hurry up.”

Harruq buckled on his armor while Aurelia slipped her dress on over her flimsy nightgown.

“We’re headed for the temple,” Tarlak said when they were ready.

“Which one?” Harruq asked.

“Ashhur. Let’s go.”

They had camped between the two walls. Normally both gates were closed at night, but because of the massive amount of people, they had left the inner gate open. Four guards stood watch, torches in hand.

“Time for a nap,” Tarlak said before whispering a few words of magic. He frowned when nothing happened. “Well that’s a problem,” he said. “They must have wards against sleep spells.”

“How important is it we not be spotted?” Harruq asked.

“Very,” Tarlak said.

“You both are being stupid,” Aurelia said, drawing glares. The elf walked up to the wall, far away from the gate, and placed her hand upon it.

“Grab my hand,” she told her husband. “And you, take his.”

They both hesitated.

“Now!” she said, loud enough to startle them. They did as they were told. She whispered a spell, and as she finished they felt their bodies tingle. Without pause, she suddenly leaped straight at the wall, her body vanishing through as she were a ghost. Harruq and Tarlak followed after, reappearing on the other side.

“Simple enough,” Tarlak said. “But I could do without the insult.”

Aurelia blew him a kiss. “Forgive me, oh wise one. Now lead on.”

Through the quiet streets they weaved. Tarlak had expected at least a few people wandering about, perhaps from taverns that burned oil well into the night, but instead all was quiet and still.

“Veldaren sure had more life,” Harruq said as they walked.

“Fewer whores and drunks?” Aurelia said. “Yes, such a shame.”

“It is,” Tarlak said. He pointed down a narrow street on their right. “This way.”

The temple was a modest one. It had no grandiose pillars and statues, no huge doors or towering steeples. It looked like any other house, just larger and with the symbol of the golden mountain carved across its front. Tarlak knocked, and much to his surprise it immediately flung open. A bald priest thrust his hand forward, his holy symbol in hand. Bits of white light shone from his fingertips.

“Um, hello?” Tarlak said, raising his hands to the air in surrender. The priest scanned the three as several other priests gathered about.

“For what reason do you come to our temple so late in the night?” the priest asked.

Tarlak pulled a small symbol of the mountain from underneath his robes and let it hang from a chain around his neck. It glinted in the light of the temple.

“I’m here because I’ve been asked to be here,” the wizard said. “And I seek your wisdom on matters of utmost importance.”

The priest lowered his hand, relief washing over his face.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Our night has been long. And painful. Come in, all of you.”

They entered. The temple had only one room, and was much larger than appeared possible from the outside. Rows of pews lined before a single podium. Neatly stacked along the walls of either side were blankets and bedrolls. Hundreds of candles lit the room, methodically spaced about on chandeliers and iron lamps.

Aurelia gasped when she saw the dead man lying on the floor before the podium. His face was covered with a white cloth stained red with blood. His hands and feet were gone.

“What happened here?” Tarlak asked.

“I must first ask you, who is it that sends you?” said the priest.

“We come from Neldar,” Tarlak said. “And we cannot say who sends us. I am Tarlak Eschaton, and these are my mercenaries, Aurelia and Harruq Tun.”

The priest bowed to both. “My name is Bernard Ulath, head priest of our temple. I will accept you as friends, and respect your need for secrecy. But I do not wish to burden you with our troubles, for you bring your own to us.”

“Your troubles are our troubles,” Tarlak said. “Who is responsible?”

Bernard sighed. He walked over to the body and knelt down.

“His name was Francis,” he said. “We found him on our doorstep less than an hour ago.” He pulled the cloth from the dead man’s face. His eyes were gone. His tongue had been cut out. A large sigil was carved on his forehead, one none of them understood.

“It is an old symbol,” Bernard said. “Closely linked with Mordan heraldry, which is why you might not recognize it.”

“What does it mean?” Aurelia asked.

“Retribution,” said Bernard. “A life for a life.”

At those words, Tarlak stood up straighter and frowned.

“Oh shit,” he said. He blushed when he saw Bernard chuckling at him. “Forgive me, please. The priests of Karak did this, didn’t they?”

Bernard nodded. “We have left them be, given how they outnumber us in both size and influence. We cannot challenge them, but it appears someone has.”

“Haern, you damn fool,” Tarlak muttered. Bernard shook his head, and again Tarlak blushed. “Sorry. So, out of curiosity, what will happen if another priest of Karak is found dead?”

Bernard looked back at his brethren, numbering less than twenty.

“They will storm our temple and execute us all,” he said.

Harruq tugged Tarlak’s arm so the wizard would face him.

“You think this is Haern’s doing,” the half-orc said. “Don’t you?”

Tarlak nodded. “We need our Eschaton here, now. It looks like we might have our own quiet battle before the real war ever hits the walls.”

“I’ll stay,” Harruq said. “You two go get the others.”

“Be careful,” Aurelia said, kissing him on the cheek.

“Always am,” he said with a grin.

The two left, and Harruq waited, feeling incredibly awkward and intrusive. The priests resumed preparing the body for burial. Only Bernard stood with him, watching with a look that he could not identify.

“Your name,” Bernard said. “Harruq, wasn’t it? I thought so. I have to be careful, Ashhur’s blessed me with bones far healthier than my memory.”

“We got to take what we get,” Harruq said, trying to make conversation.

“Indeed,” Bernard said. He scratched his chin, still puzzling over something.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Sometimes you are strong, and fight with angels at your side. Other times you are weak, and surrounded by the dead. I’ve seen you both save our city and destroy it. What does that mean to you?”

Harruq sighed.

“I swear,” he said. “Everyone just has to know about my brother some way or another.”

“Brother?”

“Yeah,” Harruq said. “My brother helps lead the army that destroyed Veldaren. He’s the one you see with the dead. As for me fighting with angels, well, that better be symbolic or something. Guess Aurry could be an angel…”

“No symbols,” Bernard said, his voice quieting. “No deeper meaning. I saw a glimpse of what might yet be. Do you pray to Ashhur, Harruq? Do you hold faith in his guidance?”

“Really not interested in joining you as a monk or something,” Harruq said, suddenly even more uncomfortable.

“Think about your life,” Bernard said. “About all the good, and all the bad. By whose hand was each? Do you even know what it is Ashhur would ask of you? Why do you reject his hand when you do not know what it is he offers?”

“Enough,” Harruq said. “Just stop. Tend to your priests.”

Bernard bowed.

“I will be here,” he said. “Whenever you are ready to talk.”

“Sure thing,” the half-orc muttered.

Harruq found a corner to stand in, and in silence he watched the priests go about their rituals. He kept trying to shut out what the priest had said, but one question gnawed at him.

The door opened, and before Harruq could draw his swords, Tarlak and Aurelia were inside.

“Blasted fools,” the mage said.

“What’s going on?” Harruq asked.

“We can’t find Lathaar and Mira,” Aurelia said.

“And Haern?”

Tarlak shook his head. “He swears no involvement. He’s outside now, patrolling the area. This is going to be a long night.”

Aurelia joined her husband in the corner, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her weight against him. “You all right?” she asked, feeling how tense he was.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Just thinking.”

There they waited through the night, listening for the sound of singing, the marching of feet, and the coming attack of the priests of Karak.

L athaar found Mira between the walls, slowly pacing with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She heard his arrival and turned, smiling faintly.

“I figured you would want solitude,” he said. “You’ve never been comfortable around so many people.”

“Why should I be?” Mira asked. “I’ve killed them all.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Lathaar said. He leaned against the wall and wrapped his blanket around himself. “Do you really love me?”

The girl spun around, unable to look him in the eye.

“I think so,” she said. “When I was to die, and make everything right, all I could think about was you. I’d lose you. My mirror would have died, and the winged soldiers would be gone, but I’d be gone too.”

She turned, tears in her eyes.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “More than anything in the world. Is that love?”

Lathaar wrapped his blanket around her and pulled her close.

“Love is learned,” he said, staring straight into her solid black eyes. “But it sounds like you’re learning.”

She kissed him. His arms held her waist. She nuzzled her forehead against his neck, shivering, but not from the cold.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“We don’t have to do anything that’d make you uncomf…”

“Not that,” she said, pressing a finger against his lips. “It’s the half-orc. Harruq. Celestia wants me to tell him something.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mira said. “It’s just… it makes no sense, and I don’t know why I think he’s the one I should tell. He’ll think I’m crazy.”

Lathaar held her tight and kissed the top of her head.

“If you think you should, then you should,” he said. “Sometimes all it takes is a bit of faith.”

Mira smiled, then flinched as if she’d been pinched.

“Tarlak is trying to scry for us,” she said.

“That’s a shame,” Lathaar said.

“He won’t find us,” she said with a wink. “I won’t let him.”

She wrapped her hands around his neck and kissed him.

“Again,” Lathaar said. “Such a shame.”

The next morning, the two awoke cuddled together, their blankets piled atop them for warmth. Lathaar stirred first, waking up Mira as he popped his back and stood.

“They’re going to make assumptions,” Mira said, peering at him with one eye.

“Let them,” Lathaar said, giving her a wink. “Now hurry up. I don’t want to miss breakfast.”

They returned to camp hand in hand, only to be surprised by how empty it was. Antonil and Sergan ate by the fire, chewing on bacon and thin slices of bread.

“Where’s the rest of the Eschaton?” Lathaar asked as he sat beside them.

“I’m not sure,” Antonil said. “I haven’t seen them all morning.”

“Neither have I,” Sergan said. “And if anyone stands out, it’s that crazy mage. Looks like he took a perfectly clean outfit and had a giant piss all over it.”

Antonil elbowed him while choking on some bread.

“I’m serious!” Sergan said. “What’s with him and yellow?”

Before either could answer, a soldier wearing the colors of Mordan ran up and saluted.

“King Antonil Copernus, I present high priest Hayden Farworth.”

They all stood as Hayden approached, wearing even thicker gray robes and carrying a silver chain with a roaring lion pendant hanging from the end. He bowed to Antonil, then dismissed the soldier.

“Greetings, priest,” Antonil said. “What business brings you out in the cold so early this morning?”

“A fellow priest was murdered last night,” Hayden said. “He was a dear friend. I want to make sure you had no part in it.”

King Antonil crossed his arms, his visage hardening.

“No soldier under my command would ever do such a thing,” he said.

“No soldier, but perhaps a mercenary,” Hayden said before glancing at Lathaar. “Or perhaps paladin?”

“Go back to your death god,” Lathaar said. “I will not stand such accusations.”

“Whatever you know of Karak, I assure you it is wrong,” Hayden said. “We desire order and stability, and the gray of our robes represents our neutrality in matters of war and death. But whoever strikes at us, unprovoked, will most certainly be dealt with.”

“We understand,” Antonil said. “Now leave.”

The high priest bowed and left.

“There’s news to brighten your morning,” the king muttered before tossing the crust of his bread to the dirt.

“I need to inform Tarlak,” Lathaar said, bowing to both. He turned to Mira. “Can you find them?” he asked.

She closed her eyes and cast a spell.

“In the city,” she said, eyes still closed. “They’re asleep, a temple of some sort.”

“Perhaps they went to see Bernard,” Lathaar said. “Let’s go.”

L athaar knocked twice, but entered without waiting for an answer. Inside he saw the four Eschaton together in a corner, in various states of battle ready.

“Where the bloody Abyss have you been?” Tarlak asked, startling to his feet.

Mira went to say something, then stopped and blushed a deep red. Tarlak’s jaw dropped.

“You didn’t,” he said.

“No,” Lathaar said. “We didn’t.”

Bernard looked up from his prayers and saw the paladin. His wrinkled face stretched into a smile.

“Welcome back,” he said, using the bench to steady himself as he stood. “Though things have grown far more somber than your first joyous arrival.”

“Someone murdered a priest of Karak last night,” Lathaar said. “Hayden’s blaming Antonil.”

“Much as we’d like to take credit, we can’t,” Tarlak said. “Isn’t that right, Haern?”

The assassin shrugged. “Is that sarcasm, Tarlak? Say it again; I couldn’t tell.”

“Enough,” Aurelia said. “We need to find out who, and put a stop to it.”

“Why?” Haern asked. “We should be joining them, not hunting them down. You saw what the priests of Karak did to Veldaren. We cannot let the priests here do the same, not with an army within weeks of laying siege.”

“I will not listen to this,” Bernard shouted, startling them all. He stormed over to Haern, reached down his shirt, and yanked out the golden mountain pendant hanging from a chain. He let it fall, and as the candlelight reflected in all directions, the old man stared down the assassin.

“I am no fool,” he said. “You have fallen far, young man. A lying tongue and bleeding hands are welcome even here, but only if they seek forgiveness and atonement. I will not listen to you advocate murder.”

Haern pushed the old man aside and headed for the door. Just before he left, he drew his sabers and pointed one at Tarlak.

“You know what they did to Delysia,” he said. “You of all people should understand. We can’t remain cowards. We need to act, and now!”

“I know what they did,” Tarlak said, shaking his head sadly. “But I know the forgiveness Delysia lived and died for. If you wish to hunt down and murder the priests, you will not do it as an Eschaton.”

Hearn sheathed his sabers, the pain clear in his eyes.

“What Eschaton are left?” he asked the wizard. “Brug? Delysia? If I go, who else remains but you?”

Tarlak waited until Haern exited, then turned and slammed his fist against the wall.

“Damn it all!” he shouted.

“Should we stop him?” Harruq asked.

“No,” Tarlak said. “We’ll leave him be for now. Our first priority is protecting the priests here. We’ll have to see just how bold Hayden is. For now, we keep all of you here, to be safe.”

“We will not cower here,” Bernard said. “There are people who need to hear Ashhur’s word, now more than ever. If we have to risk our lives, so be it.”

“You’re right,” Harruq said, grinning at Tarlak’s surprise. “And I know how.”

Within the hour, the remaining priests of Ashhur spread throughout the camps of Neldar. Their reception was phenomenal. Tired men and women, who had suffered loss and death of friends and loved ones, found ears to listen and hearts willing to comfort and forgive.

“They are so many,” one of the priests said as Bernard swung by to check on him. “And we are too few.”

“Do what you can,” Bernard told him. “You can’t do more than that.”

Tarlak watched them go about the camps, grinning.

“Clever,” he said to Harruq. “If Hayden tries to kill any of them, publicly or in secret, he’ll earn the ire of the people Queen Annabelle’s welcomed with open arms.”

“And it’ll mean he came into our camps to do it,” Harruq added. “Giving Antonil valid reason to confront the queen.”

The two quieted, each pondering over the same thing.

“Haern…” Harruq began.

“Will come back to us,” Tarlak said. “He’s just hurt, like he has been many times before. He’s not turning to Ashhur for comfort, not this time. He wants his own comfort, and that’s why he’s going to stay hurting. We’ll wait for him, and we’ll welcome him back when he comes.”

The half-orc shifted uncomfortably. “You sound like Jerico.”

Tarlak chuckled. “I’m no paladin, and I’m no priest. Not everyone has to be one or the other. Sometimes Ashhur needs regular people to show other regular people that this life isn’t as impossible as it seems.”

“Guess so,” Harruq said. “So Ashhur doesn’t forbid drinking and womanizing?”

“Nah, he does,” Tarlak said, smacking the half-orc on the back. “I’m just hoping he lets me slide on those.”

11

H aern leaped across the rooftops, his gray cloaks a blur in the night. He kept his sabers sheathed, not risking a bit of starlight glinting off their blades to reveal his presence. Hurrying along the ground nearby was a cloaked man. He held no torch, and showed no weapon.

“Why so nervous?” Haern whispered to himself. “What is it you hide?”

He jumped down into an alley, sprinted around a few houses, and then leaped into the air, landing on the roof of a small home. The roof creaked under his weight. His prey heard the noise and spun, and as her hood fell low he realized he chased a woman. She had long red hair, and her right eye was scarred shut. With her one good eye she winked at him before continuing.

“I should have known,” Haern whispered as he ran. “What are you up to, Veliana?”

He traveled roof to roof in pursuit. Without a noise he descended upon Veliana, his sabers drawn. Veliana was ready. She curled into a ball and rolled, Haern’s sabers’ slamming the dirt behind her. She spun about, dragging one knee across the ground to halt her momentum. Out came her daggers.

“Why does the Ash Guild want the priests dead?” Haern asked.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Veliana said. She lunged. Haern batted aside her first two stabs, jumped over her sweeping kick, and then kneed her in the face. As she fell back her daggers twisted and jabbed, scoring a hit across his arm. She landed on her hands, arched her back and pushed, landing on her feet out of reach.

“The priests of Karak,” Haern said, sprinting after her. “I’ve seen your handiwork.”

“Are you so sure it mine?” she asked. She suddenly dropped and spun. Haern grunted as her kick connected with his ribs. He prayed that none were broken. He tried slashing at her face but she was already gone. He chased, slashing again and again but her nimble body weaved side to side, her daggers parrying away any cut she could not avoid.

“We do what we must to survive,” Veliana said. “Just like you.”

Haern pressed further, but she seemed bored with him. As his sabers veered at either side of her neck she clapped her hands and vanished. He staggered forward, cutting air. From atop a nearby house she laughed at him.

“Take a good look around this city,” Veliana said, brushing her hair away from her face. “Tell me where we could fit in, and then wonder why. You’ll find your answer.”

“You put everyone at risk,” Haern argued.

“The city will survive or it won’t,” the lady said, saluting him with a dagger. “What we do won’t change that in the slightest.”

And then she was gone. Haern grumbled and swore. He had gone easy, trying to bait information out of her. Instead he got puzzles.

“Where would you fit in?” he asked the night. He pulled the tie from his hair, letting it fall free around his face and shoulders. Come the morning, he was determined to answer that very question.

H aern trudged toward the castle. The road was a vastly different sight than when they first arrived. Vendors lined each side, selling food, weapons, and various types of alcohol. Hundreds of people milled about, heading to or from home, buying, and selling. Many were from Neldar, attempting to buy comforts with the meager coin they carried. Haern weaved through them, watching for the telltale signs of a thief. But every time he saw two people bump into one another, he saw no hands slipping into pockets. What he did see, though, were priests of Karak roaming the streets, offering greetings to those that passed by.

“No thieves,” Haern wondered after an hour. “How the Abyss is that possible?”

He found a vendor selling daggers, his booth tidy and small. Haern approached and smiled.

“How goes the day?” he asked as he picked up one of the blades.

“Well, as well goes,” the vendor said. He was a large man, his gut matched only by the size of the muscles on his arms. “Name’s Greg. I run a smith not too far from here.”

“These are well-made,” Haern said, and he meant it. He put one down and picked up another, pondering an addition to his arsenal.

“Just toys, really,” Greg said. “I’m out here just to promote my name, let a few see what I can do. My best work is at my shop, not this crowded market.”

“Veldaren was the same way,” Haern said, eyeing a beautifully carved dagger, its hilt and blade slightly curved for throwing. “The shops made the money, the booths just sold the junk. And then the rogues took half of it, of course.”

He chuckled, all the while trying to gauge the reaction of the merchant.

“Same as here,” Greg said, smiling. “But that depends on what you mean by rogues.”

“The thieves’ guilds,” Haern said. “Though I suppose tax collectors could be called the same.”

Greg laughed. “Too true, my friend. But there are no thief guilds here in Mordeina. Them priests you see running about, they’ve made them extinct. If you’re looking for fun in the wrong way, you won’t find it in this city. Stealing, whoring, they’re both punishable by death. Plenty are too scared to even get drunk, lest they do one of those two and end up hanging.”

“You know,” Hearn said. “I’ll take this dagger here. Looks like it’ll fly true.”

The assassin dumped a handful of coins into Greg’s hand, triple the value of the dagger.

“Hope you got what you wanted,” the merchant said, chuckling.

“Aye,” Haern said as he bowed. “I did.”

H e sat atop the roof of the temple to Ashhur, content to be near without them knowing. The day was warm, its bright cheer in stark contrast with Haern’s somber reflection. Before him were two options. They were simple and clear. He could return to Tarlak, apologize, and accept his decisions as he always had. Or he could murder the priests of Karak and trust the Eschaton to protect the priests of Ashhur.

He knew what he should do. He should explain to Tarlak he had only found Karak’s priest while searching for members of the Ash Guild. The priest had been brutally beaten. He would have lived, but Haern had not given him the chance. He had buried his sabers into his throat and taken his life. It wasn’t murder. It was mercy.

“Why, Tar,” Haern wondered aloud. “Why is it you keep letting them live?”

Tessanna, Qurrah, the priests of Karak in Veldaren… all should have died long before they caused the trouble they did. How many lives had they lost in return? Brug, Jerico, Aullienna, Delysia…

The assassin buried his face in his hands. He should have saved her, but instead made a terrible mistake. He’d killed lesser priests instead of slaying their high priest from the start.

“No,” he said. “No. Not me. Not my fault.”

Haern stood, his sabers shaking in his hands. Priests of Karak had killed his beloved Delysia. So he would kill the priests of Karak. He would not complicate it, not water down the simple truth. If the Ash Guild wanted to kill the priests to make room for a legitimate thief guild, then so be it. As far as he was concerned, they were his allies.

Leaping off the building, he did his best to banish the last brutal image in his head, that of the word ‘Tun’ carved across Delysia’s forehead.

He slept the rest of the afternoon. As nightfall arrived, he slipped out, trying to decide his best strategy. He could find Deathmask and offer to join him, or work alone, killing the priests as he found them. In the end, he decided to remain alone. If he encountered Veliana, the twins, or even Deathmask, he’d decide about joining them then.

He stalked about the temple to Ashhur, curious if dark priests would try to harm the building while it was unoccupied. The priests of Ashhur all slept in the Neldar camps, and he hoped they would be safe there. For the first two hours, he saw nothing. Occasionally a guard wandered by, bored and tired. Haern fought down his impatience. The night was long, and he had plenty of time.

Halfway through the fourth hour he heard shuffling footsteps. He leaped from his spot in the shadows to a roof nearby and peered down. Three priests of Karak hurried down the street, all carrying large clear bottles filled with an orange liquid. Haern frowned, not recognizing the liquid. He glanced down the street, where the temple waited unguarded. A chuckle nearly escaped his lips. If Tarlak wanted to play politics, then he would give him some ammunition.

He followed the three, crossing from roof to roof without making a sound. When they stopped before the temple and uncorked their bottles, he watched. The first hurled the bottle, and with a loud crack it shattered across the door. The orange liquid burst into flames, a deep red fire that spread frighteningly fast. Haern drew the dagger he had purchased earlier in the day and grinned. The second priest hurled his bottle, splashing the fire-flame atop the roof, setting it ablaze. The third lifted his bottle, preparing to throw it, when he heard a brief sound of whirring air, and then the bottle exploded in his hand. The liquid showered his arm, burning his flesh and robe. The priest dropped to the ground and screamed as he rolled.

Haern landed before them as the two priests tried to help their third.

“Priests of Karak,” the assassin said, drawing their attention. “I want you afraid. I want you knowing you’ll die. You don’t deserve a quick death.”

He drew his sabers. The two priests reached for their holy symbols, spells on their lips, but Haern was faster. He activated the magic of his ring and teleported, reappearing less than a foot in front of them. He kicked the first in the face, turned, and stabbed a saber through the hand of the other. The screams of the third priest faded as he choked on smoke that filled his lungs. Most of his robes were gone, and his skin was horribly burned. Haern shook his head. If the priest lived, he’d be in horrible agony the rest of his life.

The other two however…

“I have seen your face,” said one priest as he sat on his knees. “You will pay dearly for this.”

“Is that true?” Haern asked. He killed the other, all the while staring at his accuser. “You’ve seen me murder now, too. What punishment should befall me by Mordan law?”

“You will be executed,” the final priest said. “Filthy dog of Neldar.”

Haern kicked the priest in the face a second time. Blood shot from his nose, and he collapsed on his back whimpering.

“Let me tell you something,” Haern said, whispering into the priest’s ear. “You’ll need to either tell them what I look like, or see me with your own eyes and declare my guilt. But what if you can do neither?”

He drew out a small dagger and thrust it into the priest’s eye. As the man screamed he pulled out the dagger and mutilated the second eye. Haern spat, no sympathy in his heart for the shrieking man.

“You’ve done worse to me,” he said, standing so he could place his foot on the man’s forehead to hold him still. “You and your brethren. You can be their warning, wretch.”

He pulled out the priest’s tongue and cut it off with his dagger. He tossed the severed tongue to the dirt. Coughing and gagging, the priest turned to one side and spat out pools of blood.

“Good luck with your justice,” Haern said. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a thin, short piece of rope. With it he tied the priest’s ankles together.

“Try to flee and I’ll kill you,” Haern said. Finished, he stepped back, breathing heavily. All he could feel was hate, and he used it to bury the shred of guilt that dared protest in his heart. He wasn’t finished, not even close.

He left them to be found by the guards. It was time to visit the rest of Karak’s faithful. Behind him the temple of Ashhur burned, and he did nothing to stop it.

T he temple to Karak was ten times the size of Ashhur’s. Large iron gates surrounded the complex. Several buildings linked with thin corridors towered over visitors, decorated with roaring lions carved into the stone. The main chamber for worship had four doors of oak, with paid guards standing watch at all times. Haern stood in the shadows, watching their patrols. He assumed the smallest of the three buildings was the priests’ living quarters. It was there he would have his fun.

Before he could make his move, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He spun, slashing with his sabers. Both clanked against the wall. He saw no one.

“You play dangerous games, Watcher,” said a voice, referring to his title back in Veldaren. Haern turned again and glared at the interloper.

“What do you want, Deathmask?” Haern asked, keeping his weapons ready. The sorcerer laughed as ash floated around his face, all but his eyes hidden behind his gray cloth mask. His mismatched eyes, one red, one black, held no joy as he laughed.

“I want you to cease your efforts,” Deathmask said. “Go join your Eschaton.”

“I do the same as you,” Haern said.

“No,” Deathmask said. “You go too far. We have only beaten them, giving them solid warning as to what would happen if they interfered with our business. You, however, have killed two, and mutilated two more.”

Haern frowned. It had been less than an hour since he left the temple. How could have already known?

“I did what had to be done,” Haern said. “Let’s see the queen deny their guilt when they are found at the scene of their own crime.”

“Their own crime, oh yes,” Deathmask said. “Blind, dumb and bleeding. You proved their innocence, not their guilt, you stupid fool.”

Haern pointed a saber, his patience ended.

“Move,” he said. “Or I go through you.”

“So worried about vengeance,” Deathmask said. “Did they kill someone you love? But what will you do now, Watcher? They’ve harmed another of your friends while you were not there to protect them.”

“What?” he asked, lowering his blade. “Who? What have they done?”

“Go to your Eschaton,” the sorcerer said. “Now.”

Haern sheathed his sabers, glared, and then vanished in a blur of gray. Deathmask shook his head, glancing up at the rooftops.

“He’s nothing but a wild animal,” Nien said, peering down from above.

“Wild and dangerous,” Mier said from the opposite roof.

Deathmask nodded in agreement with the twins.

“We will contain him the best we can,” he said, staring down the long street where the assassin had vanished. “Especially after tonight.”

“S ure it was wise leaving the two of them alone?” Tarlak asked as the three waited on the outskirts of the camp.

“Lathaar and Mira will behave,” Aurelia said, nudging him in the side. “At least, I hope.”

“If me and Aurry could behave during all those late night assignments, I’m sure a paladin can stay on task,” Harruq said.

“Guess so,” Tarlak said, eyeing the half-orc. “You know, you two did vanish an awful lot. You sure you behaved?”

“Stop worrying,” Aurelia said. “And try to focus.”

The wizard shrugged. They were standing outside a large tent they had purchased. Sleeping inside were ten priests of Ashhur. Ten more slept in a similar tent, except instead of between the giant walls, it was set up in the western fields, with Lathaar and Mira watching over.

“Just why is it we’re always stuck doing jobs at night?” Harruq asked. “Can’t someone pay us to work during the day?”

“Shush! People are trying to sleep,” Aurelia said, gesturing to the multitude of tents around them. “Don’t either of you have any decency?”

“Figured we’d already established that as a no,” Tarlak said. “And we take jobs at night because there are less witnesses at night, and besides, it’s not my fault that people won’t try to kill our charges during the day.”

Harruq suddenly straightened. He pointed deeper into the camp, to where a lone man with a torch walked among the rows of tents and smoldering fires.

“Go check him out,” Tarlak whispered. “And keep it quiet.”

Harruq ducked low and ran, Aurelia chasing after. Tarlak stroked his goatee and frowned. From his distance, it looked like a priest of Karak, but why would one wander so openly in their camp, with a torch so all could see?

“Son of an orc lover,” Tarlak said. “I’m an idiot…”

He felt a tingle of magic all over his body, his knees went weak, and then he collapsed as sleep tugged at his eyes.

“H ey stranger,” Harruq said as they neared the cloaked figure with a torch. “What brings you here so late?”

The torch shifted, and in its light they saw an old man with graying hair.

“Sleep is hard for one as old as I,” he said, his hand slowly waving before them. “But perhaps not for you.”

Harruq felt his eyes droop, and his whole mind blanked. He fell to his knees as beside him Aurelia slumped to the ground.

“You better be gone when I…” he said before succumbing.

A hooded man slipped inside the large tent, where the ten priests lay on various blankets. A wave of his hand and he cast another spell, deepening their sleep. He drew his dagger and waited. Moments later an old man stepped inside and pulled the hood from his face.

“Careful, Greer,” he said. “We must be quiet while we work.”

“I’m no fool, Hayden,” Greer said. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

“Actually, you’ll take neither,” Tarlak said, flinging open the flap of the tent. “Word to the unwise, sleep spells are pretty easy to ward against.”

He whistled, and at the sharp sound many of the slumbering priests stirred. When they saw the intruders they bolted awake, kicking and pulling at the others who slept. Hayden and Greer glared as they found themselves surrounded and outnumbered eleven to two.

“Won’t you two make a wonderful gift to the queen?” Tarlak asked.

Hayden laughed. It was a tired and ragged sound.

“After tonight, you won’t step foot in the castle without the guards striking you down,” he said.

Greer let out a vicious cry. Ethereal shadows stretched from his back, protecting him and Hayden from the other priests. Hayden grabbed his holy symbol with one hand and waved the other. Tarlak crossed his arms and summoned a shield as a bolt of dark magic shot for his face. He grunted at the impact. The priest was far stronger than he thought. The priests of Ashhur cast their spells, but could not penetrate Greer’s wall. Its creation appeared to pain him greatly, for he arched his back and screamed a long, constant wail.

“The queen will see the truth,” Tarlak said, still tensed and waiting for a second attack. Hayden only shook his head.

“She’s ours, wizard. It’s to us she prays. You’ll have no victory here.”

Tarlak uncrossed his arms, and from his chest a bolt of lightning leaped across the tent, swirling around Hayden. The priest raised a hand and let the bolt gather at his fingertips, having done no harm.

“Karak be with you,” Hayden said, returning the spell. Red electricity joined the yellow, and together the barrage hit Tarlak like a thousand hammers. He flew out the tent, smoke trailing from his robes. Before he landed, his body halted in air. Aurelia held him with a spell and gently lowered him to the ground. From the open flap Hayden made an ancient symbol with his hands.

“It was by my hand King Baedan banished your kind from our kingdom,” Hayden said. “And I will not let you insult our presence further.”

He hurled two bolts of shadow, but Aurelia batted them aside with her hands. She glared with sudden intensity, and all around her the dust rose into the air.

“You caused the war?” she said, magical power sparkling white in her eyes. “You banished us from our home?”

A pure beam of magic shot from her hands, a swirling rainbow of colors. Its raw power slammed into Hayden, who had no strength to shield himself. He screamed as his body shuddered and weakened. His robe ripped. His bones broke. He fell to his knees, his arms limp and useless at his sides.

“A mistake,” he said, gasping for air. “That was… a mistake.”

Inside the tent, Greer finally collapsed, so weakened from his shield that he fell unconscious. In the sudden silence they heard shouting and rustling armor. From the city hundreds of soldiers of Mordan came marching, holding torches high.

“What nonsense is this?” Aurelia asked as the soldiers approached.

“Arrest her!” Hayden shouted, ignoring her. “She has struck a loyal servant of her majesty!”

“Keep your hands off me,” Aurelia said, lightning sparkling around her fingers.

“Just go with them,” Tarlak said as he struggled to his feet. His hat hung crooked on his head, and pieces of his goatee were still smoking. “We’ll get this sorted out in the morning.”

“I have only defended myself,” Aurelia said, her glare daring any guard to touch her.

“Killing a soldier will only get you in real trouble,” Tarlak said. “Just go.”

The elf sighed and lowered her hands. The magic left her fingers. The soldiers grabbed her, two to an arm, but they were careful not to hurt her. More guards surrounded them as the priests of Ashhur exited the tent.

“What is going on here?” one of them asked.

“Go get Bernard,” Tarlak told him. “And hurry.”

In one large mass the soldiers took Aurelia back to the castle. Tarlak limped over to where Harruq lay sleeping.

“Sorry, buddy,” the mage said as he dispelled the sleep magic. The half-orc sputtered and woke with a start.

“What the Abyss is going on?” he asked.

“They attacked the tent,” Tarlak said, helping him to his feet. “They cast a sleeping spell on all of us, but I had warded me and Aurelia against it. Now promise me you’ll stay calm.”

“Where’s Aurelia?” he asked, looking around.

“Promise me.”

Harruq stopped, put a hand on each of Tarlak’s shoulders, and pulled him close.

“Where is Aurelia?” he asked again. Tarlak swallowed.

“They arrested her.”

The half-orc shoved him aside and stormed off toward the castle.

“We can handle this,” Tarlak said, scurrying after him while trying to fix his robe and hat at the same time. “She’s an elf, and the queen practically kissed her butt when we arrived.”

“I’ll kill all of them,” Harruq said, his swords already drawn. “Every single bleeding one of them, Tar.”

“You will do no such thing!” Tarlak shouted.

Harruq meant to ignore him, but then he felt something sweep against his legs. His balance lost, he tumbled. As he hit hard on one knee he realized Haern stood before him, his sabers also at the ready.

“What happened here?” Haern asked.

“Where the Abyss have you been?” Tarlak asked.

“Forget it,” Haern said, frowning at Tarlak’s ragged appearance. “What happened?”

“They’ve arrested Aurelia,” Harruq said, still on his knee. “Claimed she burned down the temple.”

Haern grimaced, and slowly he shook his head side to side.

“This city is sick, Tarlak,” he said. “It’s poisoned and wounded, and none of them have a clue.”

“What do you plan on doing about it?” Tarlak asked.

“I plan on seeing just how deep the sickness goes.”

Haern turned and vanished into the night. The two waited, unsure of what to say to one another. When Bernard arrived, Lathaar and Mira in tow, Harruq finally sheathed his weapons.

“Are you all right?” the priest asked.

“We’re good,” Tarlak said. “I just got a little singed. Were you guys attacked?”

“All quiet in our camp,” Lathaar said. “I take it you were not so lucky?”

“My priests told me what happened,” Bernard said. “But I fear things are more complicated than we thought. Someone burned down our temple, and left two priests of Karak mutilated. A third was killed.”

Harruq shot a glance at Tarlak, who glared at him to keep quiet.

“Do you know what they plan to do with Aurelia?” Tarlak asked.

“I will find out,” Bernard said. “Come morning, they will have to issue an official reason for the arrest, as well as her punishment.”

“Punishment!” Harruq shouted. “She hasn’t done a thing!”

“I will make sure no harm comes to her,” the priest said, patting him on the shoulder. “Have faith in me, and Ashhur.”

The half-orc swore and kicked. Furious, he stormed away, Tarlak at his heels.

“This isn’t a big deal,” Tarlak said as he followed. “We’ve handled far worse, and…”

“No,” Harruq said, spinning about. “You know damn well Haern is the one responsible. I won’t have anything happen to my wife because of something he’s done.”

“Yes, because it’s not like we haven’t suffered because of your mistakes,” Tarlak said, immediately regretting it. Harruq staggered back, looking as if he’d been stabbed in the heart.

“Get away from me, Tar,” the half-orc said.

“Look, I didn’t mean to…”

“I said leave!”

Tarlak threw his hands to the air. “Fine. I’m sorry. I’ll go. But you better be here in the morning. We’ll fix this, I promise.”

He returned to Bernard and his priests.

Harruq simmering in his anger and pain. He felt tears welling in his eyes, and an aching scream building in his chest. He felt betrayed, he felt weak, he felt furious and unbearably sad. He looked up at the stars and wondered what brutal god tormented him. His wife imprisoned, Haern alienated, Tarlak speaking hurt, the city twisted and listening to Karak’s priests…

“Come get us, Qurrah,” Harruq whispered to the stars. “We’re ready for you.”

He returned to his tent and did his best to sleep.

12

H arruq was the first up the next morning. He kicked Tarlak in the side to wake him.

“Get up,” he growled. Tarlak muttered something unintelligible, opened a single blood-shot eye, and then saw the half-orc.

“Oh yeah,” Tarlak said. “Aurelia. Right.” He got out from the blankets and stretched. “Go get Bernard and Antonil. We’ll need their clout.”

Harruq did as he was told, fetching the others. As soon as they were ready they set off for the castle.

“If your highness would allow me, I would ask I do the bulk of the talking,” Bernard said to Antonil.

“You understand what is going on far more than I,” Antonil said. “But remember, nothing is to happen to Aurelia. Even if we have to leave the city.”

The guards at the gates let them through. Inside the throne room the queen waited, her many advisors at either side. Hayden was at her right hand, his arms bandaged and wrapped tight in front of him.

“Greetings, King Copernus,” the queen said, standing at their entrance. “I welcome you, though I wish the circumstances were better.”

“We’ve come to hear the charges pressed against Aurelia Tun,” Antonil said. “And the proof of these charges.”

“Are my broken bones not proof enough?” Hayden asked.

“No,” Antonil said, glaring at him. “They’re not.”

“Aurelia has not denied striking him with her magic,” Queen Annabelle said as she slowly sat back down on her throne.

“The priests of Karak came into our tent prepared to kill us,” Bernard said. “I have ten of my brethren that can attest to this.”

“I came because someone had set fire to your temple,” Hayden said. “And when my priests tried to put it out, they were assaulted, burned, and mutilated. When we hurried to tell of you of this travesty, I was assaulted, and defended myself.”

“Why would we lie?” Bernard asked. “Why would we burn down our temple?”

“I have long told you,” Hayden said, lowering his voice and turning to the queen. “I told you of their vile tactics, their insidiousness. The elf seeks to turn us against one another, to destroy both temples so her heathen goddess can be made stronger.”

“Hold on, Aurry hasn’t done any of this,” Harruq nearly shouted.

“She burned the temple and assaulted my priests,” Hayden cried. “She attacked me on sight. With open arms we have welcomed her, and she sows chaos in return.”

“Enough,” the queen said, raising her hand. “I have heard enough. King Antonil, unless you can provide me with the name of one who might have killed these priests of Karak, I have no choice but to place guilt upon the elf.”

Harruq felt Tarlak grab his arm. He pulled away from him, but when Antonil turned, he shook his head.

“We don’t,” the king said.

“Then she is to be hung by the day’s end,” the queen said. “My heart will ache at the sight, but I will not allow lawlessness and murder into my city.”

“You can’t!” Harruq screamed.

“If you murder her, we will leave,” Antonil said. “My soldiers and my people. You may fight the coming darkness alone.”

“Wait!” Bernard shouted above the others. He looked pointedly at Hayden.

“The blame for the murders,” Bernard said. “The blame for the fire, and the blame for Hayden’s injuries; you may place it all on me.”

“You will accept responsibility?” Hayden asked, his eyes lighting up with joy.

“I will,” he said. All around the others quieted, staring at him in shock.

“What are you doing,” Tarlak whispered, as he pulled on the priest’s robe to bring him closer. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Hayden will not refuse,” Bernard whispered back, then, louder, “What is it you say to this, high priest?”

“For what reason would you burn your own temple?” the queen asked, keeping Hayden silent with a wave of her hand. “And why would you do such ghastly things to priests of Karak?”

“I offer no reason,” Bernard said. “No explanation. But I accept the guilt. Hang me in Aurelia’s stead.”

Queen Annabelle’s face narrowed into a look of displeasure. She looked to Antonil.

“Will this be acceptable to you?” she asked. “For I don’t want the people I seek to aid turning from me in anger and hurt.”

Antonil turned to Bernard, who just nodded his head.

“It is,” Antonil said. “I do not agree, and I do not approve, but I trust Bernard and Ashhur.”

“Take him,” Hayden said to the nearby guards.

“Aurelia is to be released?” Tarlak asked as the guards came and shackled the priest.

“She will remain in your camp,” Annabelle said. “Should she commit a single transgression, my dungeon will be waiting.”

King Antonil knelt as guards escorted the rest toward the door.

“I would like to speak to her majesty,” he said, glaring at the advisors. “Alone.”

“It is not wise,” Hayden whispered to the queen, who would hear none of it. With a wave of her hand they were dismissed. The throne room cleared out, with only guards on the far walls remaining.

“What is it you wish to say to me?” the queen asked, visibly relaxing with all the people gone.

“It is no warning,” Antonil said. “No threat. Take this as a message, and a heartfelt one.”

“You think the priests control me,” she said. Antonil only shook his head.

“Just know this: when the legions of dead storm your walls, and warriors with crimson wings fill the skies, you’ll hear a whisper in your ear telling you to throw open your gates and accept their bloody mercy. It is then you’ll know you executed an innocent man.”

Antonil stood, saluted, and left. The queen watched him go, her arms crossed and her mind troubled.

W ith Aurelia released, the Eschaton gathered in the Neldar camps, called together by Tarlak.

“All right everyone,” he said. “We need to make a decision, and we need to make it soon.”

“I’ve talked to several of the guards,” Lathaar said. “Bernard’s set to hang at dusk.”

“Not much time to plan,” Haern said.

“Better than you running off on your own,” Tarlak said. “We’ve got enough problems as is. We all know Bernard’s dying for something he hasn’t done. What are we to do about it?”

“Is there anything we can do?” Harruq asked. “At least, not without putting Aurry and the rest of us in danger?”

“We interfere with a hanging and we all join Bernard on the gallows,” Lathaar said.

“What if he doesn’t want to be saved?” Aurelia asked. “It does no good to save him if he will just turn himself in again.”

“And what about Antonil?” Harruq asked. “Won’t he leave if we do this?”

Tarlak swore and looked around. He had made sure Antonil was not invited to their little gathering because he knew that’s exactly what the king would do. He’d been hoping no one would mention that fact, but of course, the half-orc had a knack for ruining his plans.

“Yes,” Tarlak said. “He probably will. And if we fail, we’d all get an appointment with a rope.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Aurelia said. She did not wither under Tarlak’s glare. “We have to accept the gift we’re being given.”

“You all may do nothing,” Haern said as he tied his hair behind his head. “But I won’t.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Tarlak said.

“Try and stop me,” the assassin said. “I’m no longer an Eschaton, remember?”

“So what is it we do?” Aurelia asked as Haern walked away.

“We watch the hanging,” Tarlak said, slowly shaking his head. “And we keep Haern from interfering.”

“I think I liked being on the run more,” Harruq muttered.

“Amen,” the wizard said, glaring at Haern’s retreating figure. “Amen to that.”

L athaar told the rest to expect a loud, boisterous execution, so they were surprised when they arrived at the gallows in the far east of the city to find only a large troop of soldiers.

“What gives?” Tarlak asked as several halted them.

“Under orders of the queen,” said one. “Only those in company of King Antonil Copernus of Neldar may attend the hanging.”

“And I am he,” Antonil said, having joined the Eschaton after their meeting. “Let us pass.”

The guards bowed and let them through to the gallows. The structure was simple enough, and built directly into the inner wall surrounding the city. Two giant stones jutted outward, and across them was a single large piece of wood. Another stone stuck out from the wall fifteen feet above the ground, and a long piece of rope looped around it. On the right side someone had constructed a small staircase of wood.

“The queen’s keeping this one private,” Tarlak said as he glanced around at the guards.

“She doesn’t want a spectacle,” Antonil said. “She fears my reaction.”

“She has good sense to be frightened,” Harruq said. “Haern’s out there somewhere.”

No one else laughed.

“Night will fall in an hour,” Tarlak told the rest. “Get settled in. And keep your eyes peeled. I don’t have a good feeling about all this.”

O n the other side of the city, Haern leaped across the rooftops, a sinking feeling in his gut. He knew the rest were right about letting Bernard’s execution happen. The thought of accepting it, though, burned his insides. If an innocent man was to die that night, he planned to send plenty of guilty souls with him to the eternity.

Haern halted on the very edge of a building, his sabers drawn and his cloaks trailing. Before him was the temple of Karak, a multitude of armed men patrolling the premises. Evidently they had a hunch he was coming. He smirked. Too bad it would do them no good. A single leap and he cleared the fence, and in total silence he descended upon the first of many guards to die.

T he priests of Ashhur arrived in a solemn line, their faces covered with ash. They halted before the guards and bowed. They didn’t seem surprised when they were not allowed to pass. Instead they smiled and lifted their hearts to song. Harruq listened, curious of their resolve. They did not sing songs of mourning, but songs of hope, and of faith. It chilled his spine, and he could see the guards equally affected. All around heard of the golden eternity, of the love awaiting them, and each felt a wrongness in where they stood and in what they were to witness.

When Bernard arrived, his arms bound by rope and his face covered by a black cloth, they sang their songs all the louder.

“We should stop this,” Harruq said, feeling a sudden panic in his chest. “We need to stop this.”

“You know we shouldn’t,” Aurelia said beside him. She grabbed his hand and held it tight as he fought down wave after wave of frustration.

“Swallow it down, Har,” Tarlak said as the guards led Bernard up the stairs toward the hanging rope. “We all have our time.”

H aern slipped into the main cathedral, the only sound he made coming from the drops of blood falling from his sabers onto the stone floor. The rows of pews were empty. Four priests knelt before a statue of Karak, pleading for forgiveness. Haern ran down the aisle, his blood thirst far from sated. Guards were nothing. Even the priests were nothing. There was one he wanted, one in particular.

In a single motion he stabbed each saber through the prostrate back of a priest, yanked them free, and curled them around the throats of the remaining two. Another yank and all four fell, bleeding out like sacrifices upon the altar. Haern grabbed the statue’s arm and hoisted himself up so he could wipe blood onto the edifice’s face.

“Their blood is on you,” the assassin whispered. “As it damn well should be.”

A door to the far side cracked open, and a man holding a book in one hand and a small leather whip in the other stepped into the cathedral.

“Have you finished your absolutions?” the man asked as he looked up from his book. The first thing he saw was Haern’s boot just before it crushed his nose. He spun to the ground, crying out as he felt his arm twist and tighten behind his back. A brutal jerk, and he heard the bones of his shoulder crack. He cried out from the unbearable pain.

“Tell me,” Haern whispered into the man’s ear. “Where is Hayden?”

“F or the crime of murder, and attempted murder, Bernard Ulath, you have been sentenced to hang.”

The lone soldier atop the stone with Bernard pulled the cloth from the priest’s face so all witnessing could verify it was he who was to be hanged. This done, he replaced the cloth. On the ground, twelve soldiers grabbed the rope attached to the wood floor. Once ordered, they would pull as one, dropping Bernard between the stones.

As the noose slid around his neck, Bernard put his hand on the soldier’s arm. The soldier recoiled as if burned. The mask moved, and they could tell he was speaking. Clearly unnerved, the soldier stepped away and nodded to the twelve below.

“This is it,” Tarlak said. “At least we don’t have to deal with a cheering crowd.”

The soldiers tensed and prepared to pull. The priests of Ashhur halted their singing, and the sudden silence was heavy. Harruq clutched Aurelia’s hand tight.

“Wrong,” he whispered. “This is wrong.”

In a shout that was like thunder, the commanding soldier ordered the rope to be pulled.

H aern kicked open the door, no longer caring for stealth and subtlety. The room was small and well-furnished. Sitting in a chair before a gigantic tome, a smile on his face and a laugh in his throat, was Hayden.

“I hoped you would arrive,” he said as he stood.

“Foolish of you,” Haern said, clanging his sabers together. “You won’t die quick like the others.”

Hayden laughed. “I won’t die at all.”

Red light exploded all around him. The assassin swore, trying to activate the magic of his ring to teleport away. Instead the ring shattered, its pieces splintering into his flesh. He collapsed, and with blurred vision saw glowing runes carved into the floor. He felt every bit of his strength leaving his body, and in the back of his head he heard a soft buzzing.

“We have much to discuss, you and I,” Hayden said as he turned his chair to face Haern and sat down. “You’ve been killing my priests, haven’t you?”

“Not the only one,” Haern said, his heart leaping as he realized what the buzzing was. Deep in the runes on the floor was a spell forcing him to answer, and to answer truthfully.

“The work you’ve done to my priests has been exquisite,” Hayden said. A sick grin spread across his face. “Far better than I could have done.”

The high priest picked up a dagger that rested in the center of the tome.

“I knew you would not let Bernard die,” he continued. “At least, not die alone. You’ve been elusive, but now you’re mine. Tell me your name, heathen.”

“Haern, Watcher of Neldar, member of the Eschaton.”

“The Eschaton,” Hayden said, his eyes lighting up. “Karak has given me such a perfect gift.”

He placed the dagger on Haern’s throat, a look of pure contempt on his face.

A s the wood plank shot out from underneath Bernard, two daggers flew through the air, exploding into flame as they touched the rope. The priest fell straight down, collapsing limp as he hit the ground.

“What in the Abyss is going on here?” Tarlak asked as several more daggers came whirling in, striking soldiers in their chests and hands.

“There!” Harruq shouted, pointing along the top of the wall. Mier and Nien waved at the Eschaton, then threw a few more daggers before leaping off and out of the city.

“We have company,” Lathaar said, bringing everyone’s attention behind them, where Deathmask and Veliana pushed their way through the stunned gathering of priests. The remaining soldiers drew their weapons, but many lay on the ground, made helpless by the magical daggers that paralyzed their arms and legs.

“People of Mordeina!” Deathmask shouted, his face completely covered by a massive cloud of magically suspended ash. Only his eyes twinkled through the cloth across his face. Veliana wore a similar mask, with a single hole for her good eye. “Karak’s justice no longer rules this city. The reign of his priests is done. Now is the time for ash and char, greed and gluttony, pleasure without pain.”

A wave of his hand and a wall of fire separated him from the guards that approached. Together the two turned and slipped through the group of priests.

“Enjoy your gift,” Deathmask said to them. “And stay out of my way.”

Lathaar ran to where Bernard lay on the ground and yanked off his black hood.

“He lives,” the paladin shouted to the others.

Harruq grabbed Tarlak by the arm and spun him around.

“Haern,” the half-orc said. “We blamed Haern!”

Tarlak winced as he realized the connection Harruq had made.

“We need to find him, now,” he said.

Aurelia closed her eyes, grabbing each of their wrists as she projected her sight a mile away. “No time,” she said, suddenly snapping open her eyes. “We go now.”

A blue portal ripped open before them, and before either could react, she pulled them through, deep into the heart of Karak’s temple.

“W hy do you hate us so?” Hayden asked as he let the dagger draw a small drop of blood. “Why this intense desire for vengeance?”

“Priests of Karak murdered someone I loved,” Haern said, the buzzing in his head growing stronger. “You’re no different from them.”

“Am I?” Hayden asked. “You know nothing of me, of what I have done. I know of Veldaren, a city of thieves, whores, and drunkards. This city is clean. This city is peaceful. I have made a land of order here. What have you done but kill and maim since you arrived?”

Louder and louder, like a legion of bees inside his skull. His hand slipped inside his cloak.

“I have mourned for Delysia,” Haern said. “That is all I have done. I fear that is all I will ever do.”

Hayden knelt down and shifted the dagger lower, resting on an artery.

“Then let me help you with your fear,” he said.

Haern shifted his hands, all his weight upon them. He smiled, even as he felt the dagger slowly cutting into his skin.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said. The buzzing in his head vanished. “And you’re a bigger fool than I hoped.”

Hayden stopped his cutting long enough to glance down and see one of the runes he’d carved with blood scratched away by a small knife Haern held. His look of contempt turned to horror. His strength returned, Haern batted away the dagger and stabbed with his own. Hayden let the dagger fly limp from his hand and instead clapped. The sound was a shockwave in the small room. Haern flew back, unable to withstand the spell.

He expected to slam into the opposite wall, but instead strong hands grabbed him and held him steady.

“Need some help here?” Harruq asked as Tarlak and Aurelia stepped in front of them, fire and ice glistening on their fingertips. Hayden hooked his hands together in prayer and bowed his head. The entire room darkened, and when their spells of fire and lances of ice tried to pierce the black, they dissipated into smoke. Hayden looked up, and it seemed the entire temple shook with his anger.

“Be gone from my house,” he said. The shadows stretched and grew all around the four Eschaton. The floor wobbled unsteadily, and the ceiling turned to darkened sky. As a sound of thunder rolled over them, they realized they were no longer within the temple, but outside.

“What the…” Harruq said before falling to his knees and vomiting.

“Impressive spell,” Tarlak said as he tried to catch his breath. “I need to remember that one.”

“We’re outside the city,” Aurelia said, the only one to have kept her stomach in check. “I think we’ll have to think twice before ever entering there again.”

The three fell silent as Haern stood, clutching his bleeding finger.

“I left my sabers inside,” he said.

“You left your brain in there as well,” Tarlak said. “What were you thinking?”

“I was doing what you should have,” Haern said. “Making Hayden pay.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know vengeance was part of Delysia’s teachings.”

“Enough!” Aurelia shouted, stepping between the two. “Just stop it.”

“We know it wasn’t you,” Harruq added. “Deathmask and his pets stopped Bernard’s execution. They were the ones killing the priests.”

Haern adjusted his cloaks, but his face, normally calm and controlled, cracked. His blue eyes sagged and drifted to the ground, while his mouth tightened.

“No,” he said. “I killed them. Deathmask only wanted to hurt them, make them fear his arrival. I ended their lives.”

Tarlak put a hand on Haern’s shoulder, but the assassin pulled away.

“I understand,” the wizard said. “Really, I do.”

“Do you?” Haern asked. “Then why is it you do nothing? Why is it we tolerate those who speak blasphemy and death? Why do we let them live when they deserving nothing, absolutely nothing?”

“Because we don’t either,” Tarlak said. “No one does. You of all people should understand that.”

Haern’s entire body rocked in denial. The blood running down his finger flicked across the grass as he let his arms sag and his dead stare shift to the wall looming behind them. When Aurelia went to put a hand on his shoulder, Tarlak stopped her. Instead Harruq hooked his arm around her waist and led her to the entrance, letting the original two Eschaton have their peace.

“This isn’t the same,” Haern said once they were gone.

“A wretched thief and murderer,” Tarlak said. “That’s what I remember.”

“It isn’t the same!” His belief was wild in his eyes, and it was not borne out of truth but desperation.

“Do you remember why Delysia first met you?” he asked. Haern’s hands curled into fists and shook at his sides.

“Yes,” he said. He fixed his stare at Tarlak’s feet, unwilling to meet his eyes. His heart, already overcome with pain, could not bear an additional strain of guilt.

“Are you sure?” Tarlak asked, his arms crossed and a side of his mouth tilted downward in a frown. “I’m not convinced.”

Haern saw flashes in his mind, of a father bleeding from a deep wound, and a child watching, just watching. Yes, he remembered.

“You’ve always been quick to condemn,” Tarlak said. “But Delysia had every reason to think you a monster. You helped kill her father and nearly killed her as well. But instead she loved you. She talked with you, reasoned and argued, and spent night after night at your side. I was mad as the Abyss at her for doing so. I was wrong then, and you’re wrong now. We carry out Ashhur’s will in all we do, and his call is to redeem, not execute!”

Haern gestured with his bleeding hand to the city behind them, smirking at its supposed greatness.

“So we let Karak have it then?” he asked. “Without a fight? Surrender control to his priests while we lick our wounds in the shadows and await our doom?”

“Don’t be dense,” Tarlak said. “You say you do this out of pain and love for Delysia. Stop doing everything she would hate. Return to camp and hide there. We need to figure out what nonsense is happening because of Bernard’s failed hanging.”

“As you wish,” Haern said. He meant it to sound more sarcastic but his heart was too weak. “Do I go an Eschaton, or as a prisoner?”

“As a friend,” the mage said. “Always as a friend.”

T arlak joined up with Harruq and Aurelia on the way to the hanging ground. He looked haggard, and his step lacked its normal spring.

“Will they try to hang Bernard again?” Harruq asked once the wizard caught up.

“I’m not sure,” Tarlak said. “But I have an idea. Just go with me, and remember, just tell the truth if anyone asks you anything.”

“Um, all right,” the half-orc said. He shrugged his shoulders as he gave Aurelia a look.

When they arrived, soldiers surrounded the area, weapons drawn. Their movements were jittery, and their eyes nervous. Several carried torches, while others glanced at the last bit of light as if it were a bad omen. When the soldiers saw their approach they ordered them to halt, a couple even raising their weapons as if expecting an attack.

“We are friends of King Antonil,” Tarlak shouted, hoping the king would hear. “And we come to offer counsel.”

One in the front recognized them from earlier and cleared the way. Inside the ring of soldiers they saw Antonil and Lathaar standing before the two giant stones. In between them sat Bernard, waiting for a decision on his fate. Mira sat above them, her feet dangling off the stone as she watched the soldiers.

“Hail and well met,” Tarlak said, grinning at the king. “So what’s transpired after we made our sudden exit?”

Antonil waited until the three were close enough to whisper before answering.

“They’ve sent for the queen,” he said. “Their law isn’t clear about what to do after a failed hanging. Besides that, I’ve cast doubt about his guilt. Deathmask made it pretty clear he was the one behind the attacks.”

“Never said he did them, though,” Tarlak said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Antonil argued. “I can use it. Let me talk to Queen Annabelle.”

Aurelia slipped between them and sat next to Bernard, who had his knees to his chest and his head leaning against the stone, his closed eyes turned to the emerging stars.

“I figure it best if I’m a small part of this,” she said to the others.

“I do not care about politics,” Bernard said to her, opening an eye to look at her and then smiling. “But whatever happens, I am still committed to helping you. Even if I have to jump headfirst off one of these stones.”

“You’re a sweetie,” Aurelia said as he closed his eye. “But let’s try to keep the dying to a minimum, shall we?”

“She’s here,” Antonil said, straightening up. The others stood and tried to look proper, except for Mira, who just crossed her legs and peered curiously at the queen’s arrival. She was flanked by twelve guards, each wielding a shield and spear. The four at the corners carried torches, and it was by their light they saw her highness. She looked tired, and her face appeared to have aged years in just hours. Harruq wondered just old she was. He had originally thought the woman in her fifties, but at the lines that creased her face and the way her hair was pulled back, thin and fading, he wondered just how off he was. She stopped and talked to a guard who had been waiting for her, listening as he explained what had happened during the execution.

“Very well,” the queen said when he had finished. “King Copernus, please, come forward so I may speak with you.”

“I am here,” Antonil said, bowing low. “What do you require of me?”

“Did you have any part in the serious transgression that transpired here?” she asked.

“Your majesty, I was merely an observer. Those that saved Bernard are members of a fallen guild of Veldaren and hold no loyalties to me.”

The queen nodded. They could see her mind racing behind her eyes.

“My guards also tell me,” she said, “that these newcomers claimed the burnings and murders as their own deeds. Do any here dispute this?”

“It certainly casts doubt on Bernard having a hand in any of it,” Tarlak dared say. The queen frowned at him but held her tongue.

“Your majesty!” a voice shouted from behind them. The guards stepped apart as Hayden came hurrying through, clutching his holy symbol that dangled round his neck. He stopped at the queen’s side and bowed. When finished he pointed straight at Tarlak and smiled.

“It is him,” Hayden said. “He harbors the murderer, a member of his Eschaton mercenaries. They came into my beloved home, killed more than twenty of my priests, and escaped with the aid of him and the elf.”

The queen’s face darkened, and it seemed she aged yet another ten years.

“Is this true?” she asked Tarlak. “Is a member of your mercenaries murdering in my city?”

The wizard chuckled a bit, just quiet enough for Harruq to hear.

“No, your majesty,” he said. “No member of my Eschaton has done what you accuse.”

“He lies!” Hayden cried.

“Enough!” the queen shouted. “I want all involved in halting Bernard’s execution arrested. I will speak with them myself. As for you,” she said, bidding Bernard to rise. The priest did as he was told, offering a slight bow with his head.

“Yes, your majesty?” he asked.

“If you are guilty of these crimes, I pardon you of them. If you are innocent of them, then I ask for your understanding and forgiveness. Your priests have little to do with the chaos flooding my city, and I will not shed your blood in a pointless display.”

“I am humbled by your grace,” Bernard said, bowing again, this time much lower. Meanwhile Hayden seemed ready to explode in anger and frustration. He moved to speak but a single glare silenced him. The queen appeared to be in no mood. Without a word, he stormed off. The queen whispered an order to her guard, and as one they returned to the castle. Most of the lingering soldiers joined them, while a few others left for their homes and families. When they were alone, Harruq smacked Tarlak in the shoulder.

“No member, huh?” he asked.

Tarlak laughed. “I told you he wasn’t one any longer. We’ll reinstate him once this has blown over. Told you, I wouldn’t lie.”

“Such deception is close to a lie,” Aurelia said.

“Yeah, well, may Ashhur forgive me,” Tarlak said with a wink. “Now let’s get our friendly priest here back to somewhere warm and safe.”

They returned to their camps, and at their arrival many of the other priests of Ashhur, haggard and exhausted, lit up with new life at sight of their teacher. They cheered and sang songs of joy and triumph. Harruq, however, had little heart for it. He and Aurelia sneaked out from the tents, and with a little magic from Aurelia, passed through the two walls and out to the surrounding fields. With a few blankets for warmth, they huddled together and stared at the stars amid the quiet.

“I was wondering,” Harruq said as she nestled her head against his chest. “What would you have done if they decided to execute you?”

Aurelia shifted a little. “Knocked a few guards around, teleported out of the city, and then waited for you and Tar to find me.”

Harruq chuckled. “Good to know. Of course, I would have gone barging into the prison where you were held, smashed a few skulls, and ended up trapped there while you escaped all easy and magically.”

“And then Tarlak would have saved your butt and together you two would have fled, finding me,” the elf said. “See, the plan still works.”

“Excuse me,” said a soft, feminine voice from their side, startling both. They glanced over and saw Mira, her arms tucked behind her as if she were a little girl approaching a stranger. Her deep black eyes kept trying to meet Harruq’s gaze, but every few seconds she flitted them down to stare at her feet.

“I’m sorry to bother both of you,” she said. “I knew you’d be out here, because Aurelia, you’re magical and I… I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“No,” Aurelia said, standing and offering her hand. “Stay with us. What brings you out here?”

“I won’t stay long,” she said, her whole body tilting forward so her black hair could cover her face. “I have something to say to Harruq. It’s stupid, though. I don’t think it means anything.”

“Just say it, girl,” Harruq said, trying to make his gruff voice sound soft as possible. “I’ve heard stuff from Tarlak far dumber than anything you could say.”

Mira smiled. “My mother said that this world needs a sign of faith,” she said. “I think it’s you.”

Harruq raised an eyebrow. “Um… huh?”

Her smile faded. “I told you it was stupid,” she said, turning to go.

“Wait,” Aurelia said. “Ignore my idiot husband. Is that all you have to say?”

Mira crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.

“No,” she said. “Mother hasn’t given up on us yet. It’s not hopeless. We can survive, we can live.” She suddenly looked up and stared at Harruq with incredible intensity, her eyes wide and her lips quivering as if her entire world depended on the half-orc’s next answer. “Do you believe that?” she asked. “I need you to believe that.”

He might have joked or laughed, but she was too serious, too intense, for him to do so. He felt his chest tighten, and he found himself uncomfortable and nervous.

“Yes,” he said. “I do believe that. I’ll die fighting to prove it.”

Mira smiled. He felt both their tensions ease.

“Good,” she said. “That’s all I needed.”

She turned, lifted her arms above her head, and then vanished in shimmering mist of shadows and smoke. Harruq stared at the grass until Aurelia nudged him with her elbow.

“Hrm?” he asked before realizing she was staring at him. “Oh, heh, that was odd, wasn’t it, Aurry?”

“I’ll say,” Aurelia said, trying to read her husband’s reaction. “Is something wrong, Harruq? You seem… not troubled, but like you’re arguing with yourself, and I would appreciate knowing why.”

“It’s nothing,” Harruq said.

“You’re lying.”

“Fine. It is something. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Aurelia nudged him again. “Wife, remember?”

Harruq sighed. “Fine. It involves Bernard. He was willing to die for you. I need to talk to him, that’s all. Thank him.”

“You’re still holding back,” Aurelia said as she laid her head against his chest. “But I’ll let you get away with it for now.”

They let their conversation slip to lesser things, and from that, fade into nothing, just quiet comfort as together they shared the night.

T he next morning Harruq wandered through the camps, but after an hour of nothing, he finally asked one of the other priests.

“I believe he went to where our temple used to be,” the priest said. “I’m not sure the reason.”

Harruq thanked him and headed into the city. The people in the streets parted ways for him, several glaring at the very sight of him. He found this mildly interesting. Was it because he was from Neldar? An Eschaton? A half-orc? Or just armed and dangerous?

A passing child was kind enough to answer for him.

“Orc bastard!” he shouted.

“You’re not even ten,” Harruq said as the kid ran away.

He continued down the main road, feeling a little better. He was used to people hating him for his half-orc blood. Hating him for his nationality, that seemed a little bizarre. A meager comfort, however. His heart kept thumping too loud in his chest, and he had to fight the urge to turn and run every other minute. For whatever reason, he was terrified of talking with Bernard. At last he turned right and headed toward the smoldering pile of rubble and ash that had been the temple of Ashhur.

Bernard walked through the debris, shifting charred pieces of wood this way and that. His robes were smeared black and gray, and even his sweaty face was covered with ash.

“Hard work to do alone,” Harruq said, stepping into the rubble. “What are you looking for?”

“We didn’t have much,” Bernard said, holding his back with his hands as he straightened up, wincing at the popping his spine made. “But we had a few precious writings. I hoped they survived, but, as you can see…”

Harruq nodded. The fire had been intense. Hardly a piece of wood remained more than a blackened husk.

“I came to thank you,” Harruq said. Bernard waved him off.

“It was nothing,” the priest said.

“It was your life,” Harruq argued.

“Again,” Bernard said, chuckling at him. “Nothing.”

“How can you say that?” Harruq asked. “How can you offer your life for someone you don’t even know?”

“Harruq, are you blind?” the priest asked.

“I can see just fine,” the half-orc grumbled, feeling patronized.

“Then look around you. You fought and bled protecting thousands of people on their journey here. You offered your life for theirs, as did soldiers, fathers, mothers… Many died, others lived. How is what I did any different?”

Harruq opened his mouth, then shut it. He realized he had no argument that wouldn’t ring false.

“I’m sorry,” Harruq said. “Guess I might be a little blind.”

“Little?” Bernard asked, laughing. “Look around a second time. Tarlak is a good man, and he has assembled good people. They all would offer their life for yours. I suspect they already have.”

Harruq pursed his lips and nodded. In combat, it seemed so simple, so obvious, that each would risk their life for the other, but when the adrenaline faded, and life was quiet…

“You look like you’re struggling with something,” Bernard said. He rubbed sweat from his brow onto his sleeve, smearing more ash across his forehead. “I’ll aid, if you’ll let me.”

“Is it ever wrong to forgive someone?” Harruq finally asked.

Bernard tilted his head and thought for a moment.

“You’ve been hurt, haven’t you?” he asked. “By someone you love. Have you already forgiven them, or still deciding if you should?”

“Already have,” Harruq said. “And it cost us dearly.”

“Then pay the cost,” Bernard said. “It is better than the alternative.”

“And what would that be?”

The priest put his hands on his hips and looked to the side.

“Think about it,” he finally said. “How many times have you been forgiven? By your wife, by Tarlak, by your friends and family? If you don’t forgive others, then why should they forgive you? All or nothing, that’s what Ashhur wants.”

“The only family I have is my brother,” Harruq said. “And he’s not one to forgive.”

“Then compare your life to his,” Bernard argued. “Is he happier? Kinder? A stronger person for it? Or is he weak and fragile, clinging to old wounds that refuse to halt their bleeding?”

Harruq didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. More and more a thought kept resurfacing, growing stronger with each passing day. He felt embarrassed, but he blurted it out.

“Karak is everything I cannot stand,” he said. “But Ashhur seems… would he accept a half-orc? My cursed blood?”

To this Bernard put a hand on Harruq’s shoulder and smiled.

“No matter your curse, your wretchedness, your anger or cowardice or malice, no matter your flaws and sins, he loves you,” Bernard said. “Give him your faith, and you will be rewarded. Deny him your faith, and he will still love you. There is nothing you can do to change that.”

Harruq nodded, his mind struggling to wrap around the words. Too simple, he thought. Far too simple.

“I need to go,” he said.

“Of course,” Bernard said, turning back to the remnants of his temple. Harruq watched him reach into the ash and scatter it about in search of something valuable. When he found nothing, he moved over a few more steps, bent down, and searched again. At that moment, the half-orc felt like the ash.

13

T he ground shook as if giants buried beneath the world were thrashing as they stirred. Above him the sky bled fire, waves of it falling to the horizon. He felt blood on his hands and tasted rot on his tongue. When he looked down and saw the dead child in his arms, chest ripped open by hundreds of squirming black worms, Qurrah allowed the nightmare to wake him.

He sat up and pulled his hood over his head as he looked around. They were surrounded by Thulos’s demons, most sleeping in blankets with their weapons at their sides. A few patrolled the area, giant torches in hand. One passed by, nodding in greeting.

“Why are you awake?” Tessanna asked, startling him. She hadn’t moved, and her eyes were still closed as if she were asleep.

“A dream,” he said. “Where is Velixar?”

Tessanna propped herself up on her elbow, her long hair cascading over her face.

“You know he doesn’t sleep,” she said. “And he certainly doesn’t keep us aware of his doings.”

“Shush then,” Qurrah said, glancing about the camp. “Follow me.”

Together they slipped through the camp, avoiding the patrolling guards and their torchlight. Near their camp stood thousands of undead, all raised from the murdered people of Neldar. They were perfectly still, awaiting Velixar’s orders. Qurrah grabbed Tessanna’s hand and pulled her through the rotting ranks. Several rows in, he stopped and turned to her, feeling safe enough to whisper.

“Mordeina is very close,” Qurrah said. “If Velixar is to regain leadership of Karak’s followers, he needs to do so soon.”

“How do you know it is tonight?” Tessanna asked. “You do this only because of your dream.”

“I don’t care,” the half-orc said. “Preston wants you dead. I feel it time we put his nuisance to an end.”

Tessanna giggled. “We’re going to be naughty tonight, aren’t we?” she asked.

Qurrah smiled at her. “We need to be careful. If things go bad, flee back to Ulamn.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

Qurrah put his hand on her abdomen, where a tight bulge had grown on her slender frame.

“You protect our child’s life then,” he said. “Leave me to die if you must.”

“So romantic,” she said. “Lead on, lover.”

They hurried past the undead, further and further south, to where the rest of the army camped. From behind the rotting body of a gigantic Veldaren soldier, they peered out at the first wave of guards. The tested patrolled the entire camp, holding torches in their bone hands. Their tents were placed in an outer ring, protecting the inner camps. Krieger’s paladins slept further inside, and at the very heart of it all were the priests. Qurrah scratched his chin, pondering the best method to enter.

“This won’t be easy,” he said. “Kill as few as possible. We don’t need the survivors rallying behind another in a desperate bid for vengeance against us and Velixar.”

“No fun,” Tessanna muttered, turning back to the few wandering tested. A wave of her hand and they slumped to the ground, fast asleep. “No challenge either,” she added.

“They’re just fodder,” Qurrah said, grabbing her hand. “What did you expect?”

They slipped through the outer ring of the camp, silent as a shadow. Tessanna had to cast her sleep spell only twice, both on tested that neared them during their slow patrol. Together they slipped inside a tent where three more slept. A wave of Qurrah’s hand and shadows crawled over their lips. Another spell and gray mist rose up from the dirt, latching around the three like a spider’s web. This startled them awake, but they could not move and could not make a sound. From inside the tent the two peered out, watching a lone dark paladin walk by.

“You know, Krieger’s always hated us,” Tessanna said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Qurrah said. “No killing them.”

“Fine.”

She yanked a chunk of dirt from the ground, blew across it, and then winked at Qurrah. The dirt shimmered red, and then it flew, propelled by some unseen force. It smacked the dark paladin square in the mouth, hard enough to snap his head back. Tessanna rushed out of the tent, her knife drawn. She jammed it into the neck of the paladin, who was busy struggling to pull the dirt out of his mouth. His body slackened immediately. She licked the blade, her eyes flaring wild at the taste of blood.

Qurrah glared but did not reprimand her. They hurried, knowing it would not be long before someone noticed the dead guard. That hurrying cost them, however, for Qurrah tripped, stumbling and rolling beside the priests’ tents. He froze, waiting for someone to awake, and that was when he realized just how quiet the camp was. No snoring. No stirring in the night. He got to his knees and yanked open the flap of the nearby tent. Empty.

“What’s going on?” Tessanna asked. She crossed her arms and looked about, suddenly shy and nervous. “Where are they, Qurrah?”

The half-orc closed the flap and stood. “I don’t know,” he said. “But something’s not right. We need to find out what, and fast.”

He took her hand, and together the two ran toward the center of the camp. As they approached, they saw rows of torches, the light growing incredibly bright. Priests and dark paladins held them, forming a giant arc encircling a clearing. In spite of all their numbers, they were remarkably silent. Qurrah could hear Preston talking to them, his voice rising and falling in inflection and urgency. He couldn’t make out his words, not yet, but in his gut he knew what was going on. There was only one possibility.

“They’ve captured Velixar,” Qurrah said. “Or plan on doing so soon. We need to get closer.”

“Hold my hands,” Tessanna said. “I’ll get us there, like a good girl. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He took her hands and nodded. Tessanna closed her eyes and whispered the words of magic to her spell. The shadows cast by the torchlight suddenly shrank in on themselves, crawling around their legs and waist as if they were alive. Qurrah felt his skin tingling. He clutched Tessanna’s hands as his entire vision went dark.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trust me,” Tessanna said. “And shush, or you’ll let the bad men know we’re here.”

He waited, completely in the dark. Tessanna resumed her magical incantations. The darkness in front of his eyes faded to gray, then white, and then finally a reddish gold. Her words ended, and then he felt his stomach lurch as his entire world shifted at an angle. He saw Preston, and heard his words as if he were a foot away. It looked as if he were staring up from the dirt, and as Preston moved he fought away a wave of nausea, for his entire perspective shifted and reformed with each step the priest took. At last Qurrah figured out where he was watching from. He was inside Preston’s shadow.

Qurrah strained, and he felt his perspective shift. All around were paladins and priests of Karak. Their faces were somber, their eyes dark and tired. Tied to a stake before them was Velixar. His arms were behind his back, his hands wrapped with two different ropes. His feet were bound. He wasn’t gagged, but still he remained silent. Only his eyes moved, watching Preston pace.

“Karak has always warned about pride,” Preston said. “He has always warned that no matter who we are, how great we think we might be, we can always fall. We can always succumb to lies, to fear, and to chaos. That is what has happened, my brothers! That truth you now look upon.”

Velixar opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Preston ignored him.

“Since the dawn of our time Velixar has done Karak’s will,” the priest said. “He was given tremendous power, and a life that will be akin to ours when we die. But judge a tree by its fruit, says our lord! What has Velixar done? What has this supposed hand of Karak ever done?”

“Chaos!” shouted one of the priests.

“That’s right!” Preston said, pointing at the priest. “He has sown war at every turn. He has stirred up the creatures of the wedge and let them murder and ravage. And now, when victory was within our grasp, he harbored a paladin of the enemy, and still gives free reign to a daughter of the whore.”

“Blasphemy!” cried the crowd.

Qurrah looked about, searching for Krieger. He found him standing with several other paladins, all of them with their arms crossed and their weapons at their sides. They watched intently, and while they didn’t appear too thrilled with the events transpiring, they were clearly doing nothing to stop them.

“Velixar has become nothing but an agent of chaos,” Preston continued. “He serves only himself, for in his pride he believes that he decides Karak’s will, instead of listening for it, praying for it, and revealing such wisdom to others. I ask you now, do you want to see his face? The true face of this fallen prophet?”

The crowd fell silent. Qurrah felt he should intervene, but was not sure how. There were so many. Unable to act, he watched Velixar’s trial.

Preston pulled out his pendant and held it before Velixar’s face. It shimmered red. Velixar winced. The movement of his features halted. His skin peeled away, vanishing like mist. Illusion after illusion stripped bare and banished. Only bone remained. A skull with eyes. Velixar again tried to speak, but no sound came forth.

“How do they hold him prisoner?” Qurrah asked. He didn’t see Tessanna nearby, and did not know if she could hear him.

“Quiet,” was all Tessanna said. Their words came out of Preston’s shadow, but they were lost in the sudden din as the servants of Karak looked upon a living skeleton burning with power and anger.

“Is this who we should follow?” Preston asked. “This… this corpse?”

Several shouted no.

“Is this who we should sacrifice our faith, our laws, and our rule to follow?” he asked.

More shouts of no.

“Is this who we should place our faith in, over our very faith in Karak?”

Many more shouts. The crowd wanted blood. Preston turned, and as his symbol left Velixar’s face his flesh slowly reappeared. Qurrah felt a tug on his hand, and in a single stomach-wrenching moment his sight returned to his own eyes and not the shadows. He collapsed to his knees and stared, this time at the backs of the throng.

“What should we do?” Tessanna asked. “There are so many…”

“I abandoned him once before,” Qurrah said. “I hid like a coward as elves riddled his body with arrows. I will not do so again. He has given us a child. For that, I owe him dearly.”

“A good reason,” Tessanna said, a sinister gleam in her eye. Suddenly she laughed, the wild sound drawing attention to her, but not so much as the sudden thunderbolt she called from the sky to her fingertips. The sound roared over the group, and almost instinctively the priests and paladins parted at her arrival.

“You call me the daughter of the whore,” Tessanna said. Yellow light washed over her as the lightning still circled and spun, held captive by her fingers. “You wish me dead, don’t you, servants of an imprisoned god?”

“You let the paladin of Ashhur escape!” Preston said, the only one seemingly unfazed by her arrival. “Our laws are clear.”

“And so you punish Velixar,” Tessanna said. A wave of her hand and the lightning gained life, crawling down her arms and around her shoulders like a snake. She winked at Velixar, who stared, calm and curious.

“He protects you,” Preston insisted. “He does not care for Karak’s will. He only seeks power.”

“Not like you seek power, wretch,” Tessanna said. “At least he seeks it through strength and faith, not cowardice and lies.”

“Enough!” Preston shouted. “Kill her!”

Qurrah laughed as he entered their circle, his whip drawn and alive with flame. None charged. The lightning swirled from Tessanna’s shoulders to her waist and legs, her entire body shimmering with light.

“This is a sham of a trial,” Qurrah said, sneering at the priest. “And the man you accuse is bound and unable to defend his name. Velixar was never afraid of the truth. Are you?”

“His words are poison,” Preston said. Sweat poured down his face. “We have listened to him long enough.”

“Listen to him again,” Tessanna said, flicking a finger at Velixar. A spark of lightning shot to his throat, charring skin. His body shuddered, his mouth opened, and then he spoke, the magic holding him silent finally banished.

“Her words are true, Preston,” Velixar said. He let his burning red eyes fall upon all who surrounded him, prepared to take what life he had. “You are a coward and a liar. Karak would never entrust his final victory to your hands. I have faced the very might of Ashhur himself! Legions have professed my name. Yet all you control are a rabble of tested and a small congregation of priests.”

“Karak’s words are strong in my heart,” Preston said.

“You hear nothing of our god,” Velixar said. “And I will prove it.”

Qurrah lashed at the bonds holding his teacher to the stake, the fire of his whip leaping hungrily at the dry cords. Velixar stumbled free, holding the stake to keep his balance. As Preston watched in horror, Velixar reached down his own throat and pulled out a blackened and burnt pendant. He tossed it to the ground in disgust.

“Such vile contraptions to control my power,” he said. “I should destroy you here and now.”

“No,” Krieger shouted, drawing their attention to him and his paladins. “I want to see this proof you offer.”

“Are my words not enough?” Velixar asked.

“They are words, just as his,” Krieger said. “You offered proof. Show us. Let us see you still hear the voice of Karak, and your will is his.”

Velixar laughed, deep and vile. He had not done such a display since the early years of Dezrel, when worship in Karak had temporarily descended into a barbaric competition of fanaticism. The gods had just been defeated and imprisoned, and many sought out new gods to worship. He had shown them their error, and he would show the servants gathered about him in the same way.

“Qurrah, give me your whip,” he asked. Qurrah did as he was told. Velixar lashed the dirt three times. He shouted the words of a spell as he did, and at the third lashing a giant fire sprang from the earth. Velixar handed back the whip, then stood before the flame. It was up to his chest, and it burned a mixture of black and purple.

“Krieger, come to my side,” Velixar said. “Place your hand into the fire.”

“What sorcery is this?” Krieger asked.

“If you are faithful to Karak, the fire will not burn,” said the prophet. “Just as it will not burn in the Abyss, unlike what Ashhur so vainly claims.”

The dark paladin took off his gauntlet and stepped forward. He glanced side to side, feeling all eyes upon him. He would not falter, not in front of so many. He plunged his hand into the fire. He never even winced. The fire did not burn. It wasn’t even warm.

“Keep your hand there,” Velixar said. “And keep your faith strong. As long as your hand is within, all will see I use no trickery.”

Without another word he plunged his own arm into the fire. It washed over him like liquid, and did not burn.

“Prove your own faith,” Qurrah said to Preston. “You claim the name Melorak, great servant and leader of Karak. Prove you belong at their side.”

“So be it,” Preston said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I will show you I hear his voice.”

Qurrah crossed his arms as Tessanna wrapped her own around his waist. He felt the hairs on his skin raise as the lightning that swirled around her sparkled on his robes. They watched as Preston pulled the sleeve of his robe up to his elbow, seeming weak and small before the demonic glow.

“Show them, oh mighty god,” the priest prayed, loud enough so all could hear. “Humble me, but may they see your truth.”

He thrust his hand into the fire.

It burned.

He screamed and held his arm to his chest. His skin was already peeling.

“Now you see,” Velixar said. “Karak has deemed you unworthy.”

The fire grew larger, burning higher and higher. Krieger pulled back, even he unable to withstand the flame. Velixar, though, stepped inside, and was bathed within.

“I am the prophet!” he shouted. “I am the Word! It is I who leads, and shall forever lead! You have doubted my truth, but doubt no longer.”

“Kill him,” Preston shouted. He reached for Krieger with his good arm, but the paladin brushed him away.

“Your time is over,” Krieger said to him.

Velixar stepped from the flame, purple fire still surrounding his body. He grabbed Preston’s shoulder and spun him about. Preston nearly fainted at what he saw. He saw a face with features forever shifting, deep within fire that would not consume the flesh it burned. He saw two red eyes within, their rage hotter than any fire and deeper than any ocean. He screamed, but heard no sound. He only felt pain, horrific, spreading pain. His vision faded. His senses failed. Like a man of straw he burned away in Velixar’s arms, nothing but bone and ash remaining of his failed faith.

In the sudden silence, Tessanna giggled.

“That was pretty,” she said. She pointed a finger, and the lightning surrounding her struck the ash, scattering Preston’s remains so violently not a trace remained. As the purple flame continued to surround Velixar, the priests and dark paladins knelt in his presence, many professing shame or asking for forgiveness.

Velixar approached Krieger and reached out his hand.

“Stand,” he said. “You need not bow.”

Krieger took Velixar’s hand, wincing at the pain. His flesh did not burn, however, and he accepted it as punishment for ever doubting the prophet of Karak. He stood, his head still bowed. Velixar turned to Qurrah and gestured for him to near. Qurrah wrapped his whip around his arm, pulled his hood low over his face, and left. Tessanna joined him, but only after blowing Velixar a kiss.

“Their faith is nil,” Krieger said as he watched them go.

“For the girl perhaps,” Velixar said. “But Qurrah still has hope. Give him time.”

The fire withered away, and the priests rose from their knees in the sudden dark.

“Krieger has withstood Karak’s judgment,” Velixar said to them. “He will be in charge of your priestly order, just as he controls Karak’s faithful paladins. Now return to your tents. Mordeina is within our grasp, and we must be ready!”

More bowing, more begging for forgiveness. Velixar dismissed it with a wave. As they left, he bent down and picked up the pendant Preston had shoved down his throat.

“How did he know about this?” he wondered aloud as he flipped it side to side, staring at the brutal carvings nearly hidden by the blackened marks made from a multitude of fires. He handed it to Krieger, who examined it closely.

“What is this?” the dark paladin asked.

“Something you must keep close to you at all times,” Velixar said. “Keep it safe, and keep it hidden. Speak not of it again.”

T essanna huddled under blankets, but Qurrah did not join her. He sat hunched over, his arms pulled inside his robes for warmth. The girl peered at him from the sheets.

“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?” she asked. Qurrah looked away, and that was answer enough.

“He isn’t mad,” she said. “He can’t be. What is it that worries you?”

“Not now,” said Qurrah.

They waited. The half-orc created a fire with a few words of magic, the deep red flame providing little warmth. A few minutes later, Velixar approached, his red eyes peering at Qurrah with hidden curiosity.

“You would not take my hand,” Velixar said. “Is your faith in Karak that weak, or are you just afraid to show it to others?”

“I hold no faith in Karak,” Qurrah said, not meeting his gaze. “You have never demanded that of me.”

“After all you have done?” Velixar asked. “And all he has done for you, you still have no faith? What will it take, Qurrah Tun?”

“I hold faith in you,” Qurrah said, his eyes leaving the fire for just a moment. “I trust in your judgment. I understand you in your faith. And I hold hope that you will keep your promise, and grant me and Tessanna a second life somewhere far away from here.”

“I am just a man, no matter my strength,” Velixar said. “I will fail you. It is inevitable. Are you so certain it is I you should hold your faith in?”

Qurrah stood. His words came heavy and certain.

“Karak has proven nothing to me. I am withering away for him. I have given my all, yet what have I gained in return?”

“You have gained a child,” Velixar argued.

“He’s right,” Tessanna said. “Please Qurrah, you know he’s right.”

The half-orc quieted. Velixar shook his head, saddened by the sudden disruption in Qurrah’s faith.

“Keep remembering,” Velixar said. “Remember when you entered Veldaren as a conqueror. Remember the certainty and power of Karak’s voice. Remember the times you held faith, and then decide, were they so long ago? Were they so false? Or are they something to reach for, to struggle and claw with every shred of your strength to regain?”

The man in black left them alone, but his presence lingered long after he was gone.

“A child,” Qurrah said as he joined Tessanna beneath the blankets. “We sacrifice the whole world for a child.”

“Could you do the opposite?” Tessanna asked as she curled against him. “Could you sacrifice a child for the entire world?”

He placed his hand on her growing belly and thought of that life extinguished, of Karak’s army destroyed, and Velixar defeated and broken. He tried to think of living in that world. A soft stir of motion pushed against his palm, and he knew he could not.

“Precious,” he whispered. “And no, I never could.”

“Then do what needs to be done,” Tessanna whispered before kissing him. “Just as you always have and always will.”

He kissed her back, accepting her wisdom. Accepting what needed to be done. For her. For him. For their child.

Especially their child.

14

B ecause of their proximity to the walls, they heard the sudden call of alarm.

“What are they shouting?” Harruq asked, staring at the soldiers atop the white outer wall.

“Well, let me find out,” Tarlak said. He put down his food, swirled his hands, and moments later vanished with a ‘pop.’ High atop the wall he reappeared, startling a nearby guard so badly that he nearly fell. Tarlak grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to safety, smiling and saying something that Harruq couldn’t make out.

“Guy’s going to get himself killed one day doing that,” Harruq said as he watched Tarlak point to something in the distance.

“If I had to make a wager,” Aurelia said, “it’d be that when Tarlak dies, it’s at the hand of a friend. It only seems appropriate.”

“Gambling’s a dangerous vice,” Lathaar said as he and Mira strolled over, hand in hand. “Especially over the death of a friend, and by another friend you say?”

“Easy way to win,” Aurelia said with a wink. “I roast him with a fireball and claim the coin.”

More guards pointed, and Tarlak looked down at them and shouted.

“What’d he say?” Harruq asked.

“I think he said Dieredon,” Aurelia said. She waved her arms, ripped open a small portal, and stepped through, reappearing at Tarlak’s side. Harruq grumbled.

“They get nifty magic, and I stab people with pointy objects,” he said. “How is this fair?”

“Life’s not fair,” Mira said, smiling at him even though she pressed against Lathaar’s side as if to hide.

Harruq grunted.

More guards shouted along the top wall, and accompanying their shouts the gigantic gate groaned to life. Harruq and the others hurried to it, curious as to what the commotion was all about. They waited before the gates as a thin sliver of daylight pressed through. Harruq sighed as he saw a white horse with wings banking low, straight for them.

“It’s Dieredon,” he said.

“Someone rides with him,” Mira said, squinting at his approach. A sudden hiss of air behind them signaled Tarlak’s return.

“Lathaar old buddy,” the mage said, wrapping an arm around the paladin. “You’ve got one awesome surprise waiting for you.”

Dieredon’s horse banked lower to the ground, and with a beautiful display of wings, she flapped and reared back, halting their momentum. When she landed, the elf atop her back leaped off and bowed, and in doing so, revealed his passenger, who smiled and waved.

“I don’t believe it,” Lathaar said, his jaw dropping.

“Miss me?” Jerico asked as soldiers swarmed around them, preparing their immediate audience with the queen.

“Told you,” Tarlak said, laughing and slapping him on the back. Lathaar was too stunned to respond.

H is discussions with the queen ended, Jerico left the castle to where the Eschaton waited. Lathaar embraced him first, his smile lighting up his entire face.

“How did you survive?” he asked.

“That’s a story for a warm fire and a warmer meal,” Jerico said as he hugged Mira and Aurelia. “The short version, they kept me prisoner instead of killing me, and when we reached the first of the Gods’ bridges I escaped. An elven scout spotted me a few weeks later and brought me to Dieredon, who brought me here.”

As if summoned by his name, the castle doors opened a second time, and out stepped Dieredon. He took his bow from one of the guards and slung it around his back. With a joyless look he bowed to the Eschaton.

“The queen here is far more agreeable than Vaelor ever was,” he said. “A pleasant surprise.”

“We’ve had enough chatter with the queen to last a lifetime,” Tarlak said. “Come, we need to eat, and celebrate!”

“Tar…” Jerico started, but didn’t continue. Dieredon, seeing this, finished what Jerico would not.

“The demon army is but three days away,” the elf said. “There is no time for celebration.”

“Three days?” Tarlak said, the blood draining from his face. “But that’s impossible, how could they have caught up so fast?”

“The dead in their army don’t tire,” Jerico said, shifting the shield on his back and wincing as if remembering a painful memory. “And the demons have incredible stamina. As for the rest, they are fanatical, and push themselves to near death every day without pause.”

“The queen has marshaled her soldiers from all over the country,” Dieredon said. “Many won’t make it in time. As for the outlying farms and villages, she has sent out riders warning of the danger. No matter what she does, though, thousands will die.”

“Enough,” Tarlak said. He grabbed Jerico’s shoulder and led him down the stone steps toward the main streets. “Tonight we celebrate. One we all thought was dead is alive. Tomorrow, we worry about armies and demons.”

Once gathered round a fire with warm food, they let Jerico tell his story. Antonil was not among them, for upon hearing of the enemy’s proximity he had begun rounding up his soldiers, finding them horses and preparing for battle. Lathaar and Mira sat side by side, while opposite them Harruq and Aurelia cuddled in each other’s arms. Jerico and Tarlak sat between the two couples, with the mage prodding whatever information he could out of Jerico.

“It was Tessanna that first kept me alive,” Jerico said. “I’m not sure why. Curiosity, perhaps, or vengeance. Qurrah didn’t approve, and that’s putting it mildly.”

“Does he control the army?” Harruq asked, the first time he’d spoken since they all had gathered.

“No,” Jerico said after a pause. “And neither does Velixar. One of the war demons commands the troops, but they treat Qurrah and Velixar with an odd reverence.”

“They need them to keep the portal open,” Tarlak said. “Lovely as Dezrel is, I’m thinking they want to go home after they’ve conquered everything.”

“It’s possible,” Jerico said. “I fought Qurrah once before, at the Sanctuary. He is a shadow of what he was. He looks sick, and very tired.”

Harruq frowned at this but kept silent.

“What are we looking at in terms of numbers?” Tarlak asked.

“Several thousand undead,” Jerico said. “And Dieredon said his scouts estimated a thousand of the war demons. Toss in the priests and paladins of Karak, and a few hundred of their ‘tested’ as they call them, and we’re looking at one formidable army.”

“You forgot to add Tessanna and Qurrah to that list,” Aurelia said. “They count as another five hundred or so soldiers.”

“If not more,” Tarlak added.

Harruq stood, and when Aurelia frowned he only shook his head.

“Just need to be alone for awhile,” he muttered. Jerico stood as the half-orc wandered off, bowing to the rest of the Eschaton.

“I need a moment with him,” he said. The others nodded, understanding.

Solitude was difficult with so many people about, but Harruq headed for a stretch of wall where no one lingered. Jerico caught up to him and walked at his side.

“Your brother,” Jerico said as he slowed to a walk.

“I know,” Harruq said. “He’s going to get us all killed, Jerico. My fault, my own damn fault.”

“How?” Jerico asked. “How could this be your fault?”

“Because he should be dead!” Harruq said, spinning so he could face Jerico. “I had the chance and I couldn’t do it. You paladins can preach about mercy and forgiveness, but when it all comes down to it, I should have killed him.”

“This is not the time for endless doubting and blame,” Jerico said. He grabbed the top of Harruq’s armor and yanked him close. “And your brother hates what he has become, as does his lover. They are stranded, and don’t know any other way. All they want is to escape.”

“Let go of me,” Harruq said, pushing the paladin away. Jerico spun his arms in a circle, parrying away his arms and grabbing the armor a second time.

“Tessanna is with child!” Jerico said, his voice a forceful whisper. “Now do you understand?”

Harruq’s whole body went limp, as if he had been struck paralyzed by the words.

“A child?” he said, as if distant from the world. “They will have a child?”

“Yes,” Jerico said. “She is close to five months.”

Harruq took a step back, then fell to his knees. Memory after memory of Aullienna flashed before his eyes. He remembered her life, her smile, her crying. The first time she had called him dada.

“How can he hope to raise a life in this world?” Harruq asked.

“He can’t,” Jerico said. “And he knows it. They want to escape. They travel with Velixar not out of vengeance or anger, but out of desperation. It is all they know.”

The paladin knelt down beside him.

“All they know is murder, anger, and betrayal. But what if they knew grace? What if they knew mercy? Qurrah has tasted it only once, and it was from your hand. He didn’t understand it then, and he still doesn’t now.”

“Leave me,” Harruq said. “Just leave me alone.”

“If the world ends, it ends,” Jerico said as he stood. “Even if your brother kills us all, it changes nothing. We will all die in time. I await rest in the golden eternity. What awaits you?”

“Punishment,” Harruq said as Jerico turned to walk away. “For everyone I murdered.”

“It is your choice,” Jerico said, glancing over his shoulder. “But why you would choose that, I don’t know.”

Jerico left him to wallow in his self-loathing.

15

T he light of the sun was just a hint upon the eastern horizon when Harruq stirred. He made sure Aurelia stayed asleep before grabbing his swords and armor and slipping away. He strapped his swords to his belt and buckled on his armor as he walked.

“A show of faith,” he whispered into the morning air, remembering Mira’s words. “So be it.”

A cold wind blew, and it carried tension and fear in its talons. The past two days had stretched painfully long, with Harruq having little to do. He spent his time mulling over the words of Mira, Bernard, and Jerico. With each passing hour, his mood had darkened, and the city with it. More and more people poured through the gates, fleeing the dark army destroying everything in its path. But now it was here. The day of reckoning had come. Horrific battle awaited them all, but Harruq would meet its challenge.

When he arrived at the outer gate several guards lingered about, edgy and nervous. They saw him and reached for their weapons.

“Open the gate,” Harruq ordered. They looked to one another, and to help their decision along he drew his swords, the steel a deep black, the blades glowing crimson.

“I said open it.”

A quick shout and the doors creaked open just enough for him to slip through.

“Coward,” one of the guards muttered as Harruq exited the city. The half-orc ignored the insult. Without pause he trudged east, his shoulders hunched as if he bore a tremendous burden. He kept his swords drawn. They gave him courage, and that was something he desperately needed. The two walls shrank behind him. One foot after another, he told himself. He had to put the city far away, so he had no chance to run. All or nothing. A sign of faith.

Ahead of him, approaching with frightening speed, were lines of soldiers, both dead and alive. The first sliver of light darted above the horizon, and within it he saw the multitude of undead, and flying above them, the armored demons. They were distant dots, but soon, too soon, they would arrive.

The half-orc stopped. He had gone far enough. He spun his swords and buried them in the ground before him. His chest quivering, his hands tingling and his head light, he knelt down on one knee and bowed his head.

“I’ve never prayed to you before,” Harruq said as he closed his eyes. “And I sure this isn’t the last time, either. Here I am. Take me.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he knew what happened wasn’t it. Nothing happened. He felt no sweeping change. He saw no sudden burst of light, or heard the sound of singing. Instead, he felt like a fool. What would the guards upon the walls think of him, kneeling in seeming reverence toward the approaching army?

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. Since when did he care what others thought, anyway?

“This is right,” he prayed, and he knew it, even if he didn’t know how. “Please, Ashhur, he is my brother. Help me do what’s right.”

He kept his head bowed and his eyes closed. Until his death, or his prayer’s answer, that was how he would remain.

A urelia awoke to a sudden jab in her side. She snapped open her eyes and lifted one hand, ice sparkling on her fingertips.

“Where is your husband?” Haern asked, standing over her with his arms crossed.

“He should be…” She stopped and looked around. “I don’t know. Where is he?”

“If I knew, would I ask you?” Haern said.

Aurelia closed her eyes and tried to focus on her husband. She could only catch glimpses of him, for something blurred her sight. Amid white and gold flares she saw him kneeling. All around the land was smooth grass. She opened her eyes and shook her head.

“Get us atop the walls,” she told the assassin.

Haern took her hand, and together they ran. When they neared a set of stairs leading up the wall they slowed. Lathaar and Jerico were already there, talking in hushed tones.

“Have you seen Harruq?” Aurelia asked the paladins.

Lathaar glanced at Jerico, who shrugged.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t,” he told her. “Why?”

Before she could answer, trumpets sounded from along the wall, a jarring interruption of the quiet morning. In a growing rumble the city awoke. Soldiers prepared their shields, and all around them the gap between the walls turned chaotic.

“The army’s near,” Jerico shouted. “We need your husband to help protect the outer gate. Where is he?”

Haern did not answer them, instead bolting up the stone steps, weaving around the scrambling soldiers. When he reached the top he scanned the distance, then turned and waved.

“He’s here!” Haern shouted, pointing east.

“What is he thinking?” Aurelia asked as she hurried up the stairs after Haern. The paladins followed. The top of the wall was crowded with soldiers, all holding bows and crossbows. Stacks and stacks of arrows and bolts lay behind them. Several higher ranking soldiers patrolled about, shouting orders and encouragement. In the distance, the lines of red and black grew closer. They could see a vague, squirming mass at the front, and in the air, a sea of armor and wings. The sun continued to rise, and in its light they saw a lone shape in between the city and its would-be conquerors.

“He’ll be killed,” Lathaar said. “What could he possibly be out there for?”

“I don’t know,” Aurelia said as she summoned her magic. “But I plan to find out.”

She leaped off the wall. Jerico cried out and reached for her out of instinct, but was too late. The elf spun her fingers and whispered words of magic. Her fall slowed to a drift. Her feet never touched the ground. Instead she hovered a foot above the grass, and then she cast a second spell, summoning a windstorm behind her to push her along. Her arms back and her auburn hair flailing, she sped for Harruq.

“Hang it all,” Haern said. “I won’t leave him to die, either.”

He leaped off the wall, his cloaks trailing. He landed on both hands and knees, seeming completely unharmed by the lengthy fall. Sabers drawn, he chased after Aurelia.

Lathaar and Jerico glanced at one another, both debating the same thing.

“He’s praying,” Jerico said.

“I saw that,” Lathaar said.

The two rushed down the stairs and then toward the outer gate. Tarlak was there, along with Antonil and Mira. He was debating something with the mounted king, but shut his mouth when he saw the urgency on the paladins’ faces.

“What’s going on?” he asked as they came running.

“Harruq’s out there,” Lathaar said as they ran on by.

“He’s what? ” Tarlak shouted.

“Open the gate!” Jerico yelled to the guards. “Let us pass!”

Antonil leaped off his horse and handed the reins to Lathaar.

“I will find another,” Antonil said. “Get him back in here before he gets himself killed!”

Lathaar mounted the horse with ease, grabbing the reigns and riding up to Jerico, who strapped his shield tight to his back and then hopped on.

“Wait!” he shouted as the gates of the city cracked open. “A weapon, someone give me a weapon!”

A nearby guard offered his mace.

“Many thanks,” Jerico said as he clutched it with both hands.

The gigantic gate crept open further, enough for them to ride through. It shut behind them with a loud clang of wood and metal.

“We need to get up top,” Tarlak said. “I want to know what the bloody Abyss is going on.”

“My mirror’s out there,” Mira said, clutching her elbows and shuddering. “I don’t want to fight her. Will we have to fight her?”

“Perhaps,” Tarlak said. “But I’ll be here to help you. Handsome guy like me, I’m bound to be useful, don’t you think?”

Mira smiled at him.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? Bah! The correct response is ‘of course’!”

They ascended the stairs as Antonil rallied the few soldiers he had, all of them mounted and eager for a chance at payback for the fall of their beloved city.

T he queen sat isolated on her throne by her own orders. She had banished her soldiers and advisors, ordering them to either go to the walls or be with their families. The days had flown past since the Neldaren people had arrived, yet still she felt the weight of every single hour. She was too old for this, she thought to herself. Far too old.

One of the side doors creaked, and out of instinct she straightened up and banished the worry from her face. She couldn’t stop the shaking of her hands, so she clasped them tight and buried them in the folds of her dress.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Hayden said as he approached, bowing low. “Not during such troubled times.”

“It was by my order,” Queen Annabelle said.

“And I hope you pardon me for ignoring it,” Hayden said. He smiled at her, but she refused to smile back.

“I know it looks hopeless,” he continued, not at all bothered. “But our walls are strong, and we have withstood wars before. But this war, well, this could be the one to end all wars.”

“We will win,” the queen said. “Our city has never fallen, and will not fall now.”

“You should worry about the survival of your people,” Hayden said, his voice losing a bit of its kind tone. “Not a stack of stone and mortar.”

“What are you saying?” Annabelle asked, her hands ceasing their trembling.

“Have you seen the army that approaches?” Hayden asked. “They are not soldiers, they are servants of a god!”

He slipped closer, and his words grew quieter, eager, and certain.

“Karak has told me in his prayers,” he said. “They are here to establish a perfect order. Your right as Queen will not be challenged. They are here to exterminate the refuse of Neldar and the fools that still worship Ashhur. Think of your people, my Queen. Is this a war they should be fighting?”

Queen Annabelle stood, her hand slipping into a hidden pocket of her dress.

“I should look upon this army,” she said. Hayden smiled.

“Of course.”

Side by side they walked down the carpeted hallway to the closed doors of the castle. Hayden knocked twice, and the guards on the other side yanked them open. The castle had been built on a tall hill, and atop the raised steps they could see over the walls.

“Do you see?” Hayden asked as he stepped forward and gestured to the horizon.

“Yes,” the queen said, pulling a dagger out from her pocket. “I see.”

She stabbed him in the back. She let go, leaving the dagger in him. The priest staggered about, his eyes wide and his mouth locked open in shock. At last he fell. The two guards at the doors turned and looked at their queen, who glared at them.

“All priests of Karak are to be executed on sight,” she told them. “Spread word throughout the city. There is to be no mercy, not for them.”

“Yes, your highness,” the guards said in unison. They left to follower their orders. Alone, the queen stood at the top of the steps, watching Hayden’s blood flow down them, all the while desperately hoping that she had done what was best for her people.

H arruq had never prayed before, at least, not for a lengthy period of time. As he knelt there, certain his death was imminent, he felt the old wounds of his past reopen with painful strength. He remembered the many children he had slain for his brother at Woodhaven, all so Qurrah could take their organs, mutilate their bodies, and practice his spells. He remembered many of their faces, frightened and helpless. His heart ached in constant pain. He remembered the fights with his brother, and the time he had attacked Aurelia, nearly killing her with a vicious stab through her stomach. His anger, how much of a slave was he to his anger? More wounds, more pains, flashed through him. The village of Cornrows, their children and their elderly. He had butchered them all.

He clutched his swords as he knelt, feeling the heat of the sun on his skin. He remembered Jerico’s question, and suddenly it didn’t seem so trivial, so pointless. What did he expect when he died? He expected what he deserved, and what he deserved was punishment for the blood his swords had spilled. He did not deserve peace. He did not deserve happiness. Because of his own weakness, his brother marched with an army to slaughter thousands. If the priests were right, and the Abyss awaited him, then who was he to deny his place there?

It was then he heard a voice. A distant memory, perhaps, but it seemed so real. In his right ear he heard a simple call, one he’d heard countless times, never realizing its preciousness. He heard Aullienna calling.

Daddy!

His spirit broke. Perhaps he deserved the Abyss. He believed he did. But that was not where his daughter was, and he would give anything, anything, to see her again, to hold her in his arms and kiss her face.

“Take me,” he prayed in between sobs, and this time he knew it true. He did not feel embarrassment. He did not wait for reactions or listen for a divine chorus. Broken and weary, he begged for release.

“Forgive me of it all. Please, just let me see her again.”

He knew he was just one soul, but it seemed the very heavens quaked at his prayer.

A ntonil snapped his head back, just one of many as he heard the sound of thunder. All around him soldiers shouted and pointed. Above the castle, far to the west, a shimmer of gold shook the sky, as if a second sun were rising. Again thunder rumbled.

The king hurried up the stairs to the outer wall and looked upon the approaching army. He then saw Harruq kneeling alone, with several of his friends in rapid approach.

“This isn’t right,” he said, thinking of all the Eschaton had done for him. “It just isn’t right.”

He ran down the stairs and motioned over one of his soldiers.

“Grant me your horse,” he told him, and the soldier quickly obeyed. Antonil raised his sword and circled the area.

“To me, my soldiers!” he shouted. “Bring your horses to me!”

By the time they had gathered there were two hundred of them, crowding through the soldiers of Mordan that gathered.

“Open the gate!” the king shouted. “Let us pass!”

For the third time that morning the gate creaked open. As it opened they saw the army approaching, vastly outnumbering them. Antonil raised his sword even higher, and shouted loud as he could to drown out the fear that swarmed through them.

“We will ride,” he cried. “For Neldar, for our people, and for our beloved dead!”

His men, loyal to the end, raised high their weapons and cheered his name.

“For King Antonil!” they shouted.

“For Neldar!” Antonil shouted back.

The two hundred rode out of the castle, still cheering.

Q urrah walked before the rows of the dead, Tessanna at his right. On his left, Velixar and Ulamn discussed strategy. When they saw Harruq in the distance, alone, they were baffled.

“What do we do with him?” Velixar asked Qurrah as they neared.

“Perhaps he wants to join us?” Tessanna offered.

Qurrah shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Time for that is long past. Perhaps he wants one last blaze of glory in battle before dying. Deny him even that. Ulamn, shower him with your spears.”

“Is he worth the effort?” Ulamn asked.

“He is,” Qurrah said.

Ulamn raised his fist and shouted orders. Above him winged demons heard and obeyed. They flew higher and higher, and as one they hurled their spears hundreds of yards through the air, which fell like a deadly rain upon the kneeling half-orc.

“H arruq!” Aurelia shouted as she ended her spell. Her knees slid on the grass beside him as she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up to face her. He was still sobbing, but somehow he smiled, even as tears ran down from eyes that shimmered gold.

“Aurry,” he said before letting go of his swords and wrapping her in his arms. “I love you,” he said as he clung to her with desperate strength.

“I love you, too,” she said. She closed her eyes and hugged him tighter. Over his shoulder she saw the hundreds of spears hurtling through the air.

So be it, she thought. She would die in Harruq’s arms. She could think of no better way.

“T hey’ll be killed!” Lathaar shouted as their horse neared. They had almost caught up with Aurelia by the time she flung her arms around her husband.

“Ride in front of them,” Jerico ordered as he pulled his shield off his back. “And pray Ashhur is with us both.”

Lathaar did as asked, tugging on the reins. Jerico leaped off, rolling across the dirt and ignoring the sudden pain to his arms and knees. There was no time. He slammed the lower edge of his shield into the dirt to halt his roll, then shoved it into the air.

“ Elholad! ” he shouted. A white image of his shield shimmered an inch above the steel, and then grew, larger and larger. For a hundred yards it stretched out, spreading outward like the shield of a god. The spears pelted against it, their tips melting, their shafts breaking. Jerico winced, feeling every single spear as it hit the shield, each one sapping a little more of his strength. When the last one broke, their remains raining down between them and the army, Jerico lowered his shield and managed to grin in between gasping for air.

“Praise Ashhur,” he said. “That was awesome.”

As if in response, the western sky groaned with thunder.

Lathaar circled his horse about and dismounted, smacking it on the rump so it’d bolt back to the city. As the two paladins stood before Harruq and Aurelia, Haern appeared, a smile on his face.

“Care if I join your last stand?” he asked.

“More than welcome,” Lathaar said. “Ashhur knows we need you.”

Harruq stood, and Aurelia stood with him. He pointed a sword at the faint image of Qurrah, and as he did the red glow about the blade turned white.

“He’s mine,” Harruq said. “Kill as you must, but leave him to me.”

Aurelia stepped back, seeing the change in his eyes and unsure of what it meant. The two paladins saw the glow on his blades, however, and could think of only one conclusion.

“Blessed be,” Jerico said, laughing in spite of all the insanity. “Blessed be.”

“W hat trickery is this?” Ulamn said as he watched his soldiers’ attacks rendered futile by the glowing shield.

“They are powerful,” Tessanna said. “Do you still doubt that?”

“I will send in my dead,” Velixar said. “Those there are the city’s greatest defenders, out in the open. We kill them, and Mordeina will fall in time.”

Tessanna opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly stopped. Her muscles tightened. Her head flung back.

“Tess?” Qurrah asked, grabbing her shoulders. “Tess!”

“R emind me to never, ever get into a fight with one of them,” Tarlak said as he watched the rain of spears shatter on Jerico’s holy shield. His heart had been heavy, expecting to watch his friends murdered, but instead they survived and gathered to fight. Beside him Mira smiled, and then suddenly she snapped erect. Her arms flung wide. Her mouth opened, and high above the western sky rumbled angrily.

As one, Mira and Tessanna spoke, their voices impossibly loud. All for miles clearly heard their words.

“Long I have watched,” they cried. “Long I have slumbered. But the Balance is broken. My world, my beloved creation, is ruined. A demon army marches, to free whom I have imprisoned. So be it. If Balance is to tumble, then let it tumble, but not without a chance for redemption. I have been given a sign of faith, and of hope. If Karak is to have his demons, then I will give Ashhur his angels.”

A sound greater than any thunder resounded throughout the vale. The western sky split. All who looked saw a land golden and shimmering, and from it flew men with white wings and golden armor. They were in exact number as Ulamn’s troops, who raised their weapons and shouted in bitter hatred.

Just as sudden as it had opened the tear in the sky closed. The thunder quieted. The angels flew in their formations, over Mordeina and straight for the war demons.

“S uch hypocrisy,” Velixar seethed, his whole body shaking with rage. “The whore promises neutrality, and yet releases Ashhur’s soldiers while keeping Karak imprisoned?”

“It is her last gasp,” Qurrah said as he held Tessanna in his arms. The girl had collapsed after issuing her statements, her eyes closed and her body limp. “She cannot stop us on her own.”

“Destroy the fools on the ground,” Ulamn said as he spread his wings. “We will massacre Ashhur’s soldiers and then move onto the city. We will not fail here!”

The demon took to the sky, commanding his troops and preparing for the assault. Velixar issued an order, and at once his multitude of undead lumbered forward, to bury Harruq and his allies under their sheer weight and number.

“T ime for some fun,” Tarlak said, cracking his knuckles. Mira lay beside him, her back propped against the ledge. She was still breathing, so he assumed she would recover, he just didn’t know when. Being possessed by a goddess certainly wasn’t something he was familiar with. Praying she would be fine, he looped his hands about and hurled a ball of flame through the air. Its aim was true, and it exploded amid a massive amount of undead, consuming their corpses. He chuckled and prepared another.

“Do as much damage while they are still packed tight,” Dieredon said from behind him. Tarlak turned to see the elf riding Sonowin.

“Planned on it,” Tarlak said as he tipped his hat.

Dieredon saluted back, then yanked on Sonowin’s reins. Horse and rider soared over the wall, just ahead of the first wave of angels. He released the reins and drew his bow, trusting his mount. He drew three arrows from his quiver, their tips glistening with holy water. He pulled all three back and fired into the horde of demons, each one piercing through armor, wing, or flesh. Spears flew his direction, but Sonowin dodged with ease. Dieredon fired volley after volley, until the army was almost upon him. He then looped his bow about his back, grabbed the reins, and dove.

High above him the angels and demons clashed, showering the ground below with blood.

“S low their approach,” Haern shouted to Aurelia as the waves of undead charged.

Aurelia stood, all emotion draining from her face as she prepared for battle. Frost wafted from her fingers as she they danced. Giant boulders of ice leaped from her hands, rolling through the ranks of undead. She then created a wall of fire, stretching for hundreds of yards. Wave after wave marched through it, burning skin and setting bodies aflame.

Then the wall of fire vanished as quickly as Aurelia had summoned it. Velixar approached, Qurrah and Krieger at his sides.

“It’s been a long time, elf,” Velixar shouted as his undead marched past him. Aurelia shivered, remembering her battle in Woodhaven years ago. She had thrown everything at him, and he had only laughed. She hurled a bolt of lightning, not at him, but at his minions. Velixar countered, stretching his arms and sending a shimmering black sphere directly in its path. The lightning struck the sphere and dissipated.

“Keep him occupied,” Lathaar said to Aurelia as they braced themselves. “And we’ll keep us alive.”

“Flee you fool,” Qurrah shouted to his brother.

“You stay and fight the dead if you want,” Harruq said, shaking his head. “I’m going for him.”

He charged, slamming through the undead as if they were an inconvenience at best. His twin blades sliced through rotted flesh, leaving a crimson afterimage as they spun and cut.

“Send your troops around back,” Velixar ordered Krieger before casting another spell. A dark mist rose from the ground, swirling into his undead as if their open wounds were breathing it in. Their rotten flesh tightened. Their lumbering gaits quickened. With beyond human strength they struck, and Harruq found himself on the defensive, parrying and dodging their punches and bites.

Jerico and Lathaar sang a song to Ashhur as they fought, even as their bodies cringed at the sheer strength ramming against their weapons and shield. Haern fought as he had in Veldaren, spinning and weaving around the two paladins, so that if either faltered he was there, cutting down an attacker with a precise strike from his sabers. Dieredon flew over, raining down arrows before banking around, dodging a bolt of shadow Qurrah threw at him.

“You fight valiantly,” Qurrah said to his brother, who struggled a mere ten feet away, unable to pass through the waves of undead that seemed unending. “Throw down your weapons, and perhaps you will live.”

A ball of flame exploded among the undead ranks to his right, no doubt a gift from Tarlak.

“I know!” Harruq shouted, ignoring his offer. “I know about your child! I know about your promise!”

Qurrah staggered as if struck by an arrow. He glanced at Tessanna, who was just beginning to stir.

“You know nothing,” he hissed, shadows stretching and growing about his body. “I will end you, worm.”

All around them bodies crashed to the ground, both angel and demon. Qurrah mashed his hands together, and between his fingers thin darts of darkness shot toward Harruq, over fifty in number. Harruq spun his blades as he turned, avoiding most, and the ones that did bite into his skin, he ignored. They did no real damage, instead flooding his body with incredible pain. The half-orc chuckled. Apparently his brother didn’t realize just how much his pain threshold had increased.

He chopped down two more undead, spun his swords in a circle to shred four more and lunged, the way to his brother clear. Qurrah drew his whip and lashed the ground, eager to put an end to his guilt.

T wo more bolts of lightning streaked from her hands, and each one Velixar absorbed with orbs of shadow. When she hurled a third directly at him, he smirked and swatted it aside as if it were a fly. The bolt veered into the air, killing several of the aerial combatants.

“Behind us!” Haern shouted as he leaped over Jerico, the paladin slamming his shield into a large skeletal undead. Its bones exploded into chalk under the tremendous glow. The assassin pointed his sabers, even though he doubted either Aurelia or the paladins would be able to spare the moment to see. Twenty dark paladins rode on horseback around the ranks of the dead, curling about with an obvious goal. They would flank them all, and pressed on both sides the Eschaton would fall.

Haern felt panic claw his gut, but when he glanced back at the city, he laughed. Perhaps things weren’t as dire as he thought. Two balls of fire detonated around the dark paladins, courtesy of Tarlak, and as they angled their charge they saw Antonil and his troops, numbering two hundred to their twenty. Antonil led the way, his sword held high. Krieger tried to turn about, but the distance was not enough.

“Ram them!” Antonil shouted. “Do not engage, just send them to the dirt!”

The fight was quick but brutal. Antonil’s men gave no care for their own safety, even knowing the dark paladins’ strength and skill. Instead, their horses slammed directly into them, plowing bodies together and toppling them from their mounts. Those that stayed seated were vastly outnumbered, and could only turn and flee. Seven of the twenty managed to remain mounted and escape. Krieger was not one of those twenty.

Antonil pressed on, many of his own men dead or dismounted. They picked up speed, and as one, the soldiers shouted the name of their king. They rode through the waves of dead surrounding the Eschaton, crushing them with their sheer weight. Velixar attacked them with boulders of lava, but this time it was Aurelia who countered, ripping chunks of earth from the ground and forcing them back.

“Where are my tested?” Velixar shouted. “Where are my priests?” A ball of fire flew just over his head, decimating twenty more undead in its explosion. “And will someone kill that damn mage?”

Behind the rows of undead, the tested sang their own song of Karak’s glory, their skeletal hands raised to the sky. They pushed through the dead, eager for their chance at combat. The priests, however, remained at the back, gathered together in a tremendous circle. They were casting a spell, but he could not tell what. Velixar glanced at the sky, where the battle was still undecided. His priests could turn the battle, bombarding Harruq and his allies with spells of weakness and madness.

He ran through his undead and his tested, approaching the circle. The words they shouted in unison seemed familiar to him, as if from a century-old dream. Their arms were raised to the sky, and as one they shouted a single name, one that filled him with fury.

‘Melorak!’ they shouted.

Velixar pushed into the circle, but was too late. In the center was a single body, a fellow priest willingly sacrificed with a gigantic gash in his throat. Shadows swirled into him, and the grass below withered brown and died. A deep, low rumble sounded from the throats of the priests, and in one jerky movement, the body stood. There was no doubt who it was.

“I am the one whose coming was foretold,” Preston said, his features constantly shifting and his eyes glowing red. “The time of prophets is over, Velixar. In this new age, Karak has sent his king.”

He outstretched his hand, red lightning leaping from his palm straight for Velixar.

Q urrah lashed twice with his whip, forcing Harruq to stop and slap it away. Before Harruq could continue forward, Qurrah slammed his hands together. Twenty of the nearby undead exploded in a shower of rotted flesh. He pulled the bones to him, swirling around his body like making him the center of a skeletal tornado. Harruq stopped just short of its edge and slammed his swords together. Light flashed over them both, and the bones wavered in the air, their magic waning. Qurrah focused harder, but when Harruq again slammed his swords together the bones fell.

Qurrah dove as the hilts of Harruq’s swords struck where he’d been. The half-orc grabbed a clump of dirt and hurled it behind him, filling it with dark magic. When Harruq slapped it aside with one of his swords, it exploded into a barrage of darts. They pierced his armor and flesh, flooding his nerves with unending pain. He collapsed to one knee, screaming. Many of the undead approached him, their arms reaching out, but he regained his footing and smacked them away.

“What is the point of this?” Qurrah asked as his fingers danced. The rotted flesh Harruq stepped on suddenly animated, wrapping around his ankles and holding him still. “You didn’t have the strength to kill me before. Will you kill me now, brother, or is this a waste of time?”

Harruq chopped at the dead flesh with one sword, fending off attacking undead with his other.

“No waste,” he said. “And no lack of strength.”

“I see your eyes,” Qurrah said. A tested ran past him, and before he could react, Qurrah yanked out his spine with a spell and wielded it as a staff. He ignored the fanatic’s dying screams.

“You claimed me a puppet of a god,” Qurrah continued. “But you have lost yourself to Ashhur, far more than I ever served Karak.”

Harruq grinned as he cut the last of the flesh holding his ankle. He twirled Salvation and Condemnation, as if daring Qurrah to strike.

“You’re right,” Harruq said. “But I have gained so much in return. What has Karak given you?”

He swung a few times, easy blows he knew his brother could block with his staff. He poured more and more strength into his hits, and the staff shimmered with a red luminescence as the magic holding it together began to fail.

“I have Tessanna,” Qurrah said, dropping the staff and slamming his palms together. A wave of invisible force rammed into Harruq, but he plunged his swords into the ground and held firm. “I have her child. We will escape everything, and live in peace beyond the stars.”

“You had Tess before you turned to Karak,” Harruq said as he pulled his swords free. “Your child is not yet born. You cling to promises and lies.”

“You know nothing,” Qurrah shouted. He struck Harruq square in the chest with a bolt of shadow, crushing in his armor and threatening to snap his ribs. The half-orc gasped at the blow, but still held his footing.

“You always were the smart one,” Harruq said as he accepted another bolt of shadow to his chest. “Thought you were the stronger, too.”

A third bolt hit, and still his body withstood. At the fourth he crossed his swords and let it splash harmlessly against their steel.

“But that isn’t true; not anymore,” Harruq said, lunging with such speed his brother could only fall backward and throw up a desperate defense.

“T reat their hands like swords!” Jerico shouted as the waves of undead ended and a swarm of tested approached. “And don’t let them touch you!”

The tested shouted the name of their god, their voice carrying magic. The paladins felt their resolve weaken at the sound. Haern leaped back, wishing for a protection spell from Delysia, and then feeling his heart ache as he realized it would never be. Aurelia cast a bolt of lightning directly into their ranks, killing five. Lathaar and Jerico rushed forward as they arrived, slamming into the tested with sword and shield leading. Their foes wore no armor, and held little protection against their attacks. Whenever they tried to block, Lathaar’s glowing blades sliced through the bony arms and into flesh. Jerico’s shield repelled them with ease, and over it he struck again and again with his mace. They were many though, and they pushed forward with tremendous strength.

Haern weaved between them, slicing out tendons in the arms and legs of the tested. He spun his cloaks, daring those that surrounded him to try an attack, but instead they stopped.

“Karak!” they shouted, and from all sides the power was tremendous. Haern halted his cloak dance and collapsed to the ground, his arms and legs flailing despite his orders to flee.

“Haern!” Aurelia shouted, seeing him fall. She raised her arms above her head and then pulled them down. Huge chunks of earth tore free before her and rolled straight for the tested. She let out a horrified cry as Antonil’s men suddenly appeared in between them, crushing tested underneath their charge. The boulders knocked aside almost a third of his men, and those that were not killed immediately soon died to the swarming tested.

Haern heard their screams, and knew he should move, but instead he cowered, feeling paralyzed and helpless. Something punched his gut, and he screamed long and loud. A second hit his knee, shattering bone. He rolled to the ground and onto his back, and above him he saw fanatics reaching with dead hands and hate-filled eyes.

“Save him!” Aurelia shouted to the paladins. They surged ahead, pushing aside tested and undead with brutal efficiency, but they were too many, the distance, too far.

“Karak!” they shouted.

One grabbed Haern by his neck and held him high. The tested’s fingers were ice, and black marks stretched across Haern’s skin from their contact. A second struck his side. Ribs broke. Several more times they struck him, the bones in his body fracturing under the blows.

“Karak!” they shouted.

The skeletal hand clutched his neck tighter. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Something grabbed his hip, and then his entire body shrieked in pain as two tested mashed their fists against his waist, shattering his femur.

“Karak!” they shouted.

Haern looked to the sky, and there he saw white wings stretching wide enough to blot out the sun. He knew his life had reached its end.

“Karak!” they shouted.

Sonowin slammed into the group of tested, her landing so brutal she rolled, her neigh coming out as a long shriek as one of her wings snapped. Dieredon leaped off, tucking his legs and bouncing across the ground before uncurling in a sudden, deadly barrage. He wielded his bladed bow as a staff, tearing out the throats of three nearby before kicking the face of the one who held Haern. The elf caught him as he fell, ignoring the horrible screams of pain Haern made. Sonowin rolled to her feet, shrugging off bodies. She curled her wings against her sides and came to her master. Dieredon hoisted Haern onto her back, spun, and fought the way clear.

The winged horse bolted for safety, running over any who tried to stop her. Her eyes bulged in her head, and blood ran from her nose. Haern hung limp on her back, every movement a mountain of torment. Aurelia protected their escape with her magic, striking down several with arrows of either fire or ice. She prayed to Celestia that the assassin would survive his wounds.

“Fall back!” Jerico shouted, and Lathaar obeyed. The two battled side to side, completely surrounded by tested. Karak’s name rolled over them, but their hearts were strong, their faith in Ashhur strong. Dieredon swung his bow in a wide arc, and as the tested backed away the string on his bow reappeared. He reached into his quiver and drew arrow after arrow, killing twenty in a lethal barrage. The way to the paladins clear, he swung his bow onto his back and ran.

V elixar hated the way the priests watched him fight Preston, as if victory over Mordeina were assured, and the chaos and death around them were inconsequential. He knew the war in the sky would determine the outcome, and if they lost, any chance of total victory was gone. His priests could turn the tide, but instead they sang praises to Karak as Melorak pelted him with barrage after barrage of fire, shadow, and lightning.

“You are the weaker,” Melorak said. In life his voice had been shrill and annoying, but in death it had deepened, and shook with power. “I prove this with each passing moment.”

“You prove nothing,” Velixar said, his whole body shaking as he summoned a magical shield to protect himself from purple fire that spewed from Melorak’s hands. He felt a deep ache in his head, much of his energy draining away to keep the portal in Veldaren open. His pupil shared that same ache, and he could feel Qurrah’s strength fading. The disastrous collapse of his army weighed heavily on his shoulders, and for the first time in centuries he felt doubt. Perhaps, just perhaps, Karak had let Preston be resurrected to punish him for his failure?

In that moment of weakness, Melorak braced his legs and aimed his open palms at Velixar’s chest. A beam darker than any cave shot from them, larger than Velixar himself. Karak’s prophet crossed his arms and summoned every shred of strength he had. He felt his resolve weakening, his reservoir of magical energy long empty. Still he pressed on, as over and over he begged to Karak for aid. His shield cracked. Magic rushed over his body, tearing at his skin and threatening to turn his whole existence to ash.

H igh above, the battle similarly turned for the worse. Ulamn continued giving orders, and they were more than a match for their golden counterparts, but they were burdened with months of travel, while the angels fought with fresh strength. Still he thought they could win, but just then a group of twelve angels pulled back, sheathed their weapons, and raised their hands to the sky. Holy light washed over their allies, closing wounds and filling them with resolve.

“Clerics,” Ulamn said before unleashing a torrent of curses. He watched his soldiers fall, bleeding and doomed to the ground, unable to withstand the new surge of power the angels displayed. The war demon looked to the lower battlefield, searching for the two keys to the portal. He saw them both locked in combat and swore again. If either died, he and his army would be trapped, unable to summon reinforcements or to escape to the multitude of worlds they controlled.

Furious, he took a horn to his lips and issued a call for retreat. He grabbed the nearest demon, shouted an order to him, and together they dove.

H arruq’s swords could cut through flesh, bone, even chainmail and stone, but they could do nothing against the shadowy mist Qurrah’s body became. His image swayed side to side as the glowing blades passed through without resistance. Qurrah hooked his hands together, his features darkening as if he walked in night despite the shining sun. He reached into Harruq’s chest, and the half-orc felt a shocking cold as incorporeal fingers closed about his heart.

As the pain tore through him he leaped back, twisting his body to get away from the squeezing fingers. Qurrah’s body regained normal form, and he snarled as he began to cast another spell. Before he could finish, a demon swooped in from the sky, picked him up, and carried him skyward. Harruq watched him fly, his swords sagging in his hands. Qurrah shouted something, but he could not hear it, only see the anger in his brother’s eyes. About that he could do nothing.

H e had to survive, and to do that, Velixar needed to release his undead from his command. He let them go, as if he would let go of a weight tied to a string. The sudden relief gave him enough strength to push away the last of Preston’s attack. He expected to hear the thuds of his undead collapsing to the ground, but instead they turned about and began marching east. All the while, Preston grinned.

“They are mine now,” he said. “You are no longer needed.”

Velixar glanced to the sky and saw the demons retreating, only a few staying back to slow the angels that chased. The man in black lifted his arms and shook his head as he glared.

“You are a blasphemy,” he said. Preston prepared for an attack, but instead a demon grabbed Velixar’s arms and pulled him into the air. Undisturbed, Preston let them go. He shouted orders to his priests, and together they fled, the undead providing a buffer between them and their pursuers. The few remaining dark paladins rode past on their horses, their hearts reeling in the loss.

“T essanna!” Qurrah shouted, fighting against the demon that flew him east.

“Relax, gatekeeper,” the demon said. He had only one eye, and blood poured from cuts on his face. His skin looked like leather scraped over by an old, chipped knife. “We have taken your lover as well. She will be safe.”

Qurrah squirmed, trying to look back at the dying battle.

“Keep moving and we both die,” the demon said, squeezing Qurrah tight enough to hurt his ribs.

A second demon flew closer, Velixar in his arms. Ulamn flew above them both, holding Tessanna. Far behind them the crushed army of Karak fled, only a remnant of what it had been only hours before.

16

“H arruq!” Aurelia shouted, rushing over to where her husband watched the army flee. He smiled at her, and as he did the gold in his eyes slowly faded. His swords lost their white glow. He sheathed them and opened his arms, smiling as she wrapped him in a hug. The two paladins saluted with their weapons. Antonil and his men rode up to them, coated with blood and gore.

“We are too few to chase,” Antonil said, gesturing to the undead. “And they still have plenty of priests and paladins with them to cause problems. As for above, well…” He shrugged. “I think we might need to introduce ourselves.”

Ashhur’s angels had turned about, having finished off the remaining few demons that lingered. Bodies of both angels and demons covered the ground, and Harruq examined one, curious as to what they were. They appeared human, just much taller, with muscles that made even his seem average. He saw several bodies with different color hair, but all their eyes were a soft, golden color, with hints of green, blue, or brown.

Around them the air swirled and blew as the angels descended in tight formations. Three leaders flew ahead of the others. They landed before Antonil in a triangle, while the rest formed a circle surrounding them all. As one they bowed.

“Well met, warrior of man,” said the tallest of the three, a giant with pure white wings which stretched out three times the length of his arms. His hair was a brilliant gold and his features looked like they were chiseled from stone; a perfect man made flesh. “My name is Ahaesarus, commander of Ashhur’s angels. To my left is Judarius, my finest soldier and military leader. To my right is Azariah, my wise and faithful high priest.”

The two bowed. Judarius wore elaborate armor that looped around his body, with interwoven pieces that adjusted to his every movement as if it were cloth. Strapped to his back was an enormous mace with a shaft the length of a normal man and its head solid steel wrapped in leather. Azariah wore little armor, just white robes, a golden sash and a pendant of the mountain hanging from his neck. The two appeared brothers, with identical gold-green eyes and short brown hair.

“We are honored,” Antonil said, bowing in return.

“Where is the half-orc?” asked Azariah. His voice seemed to float over them, soft and ethereal. Harruq stepped forward. He stood perfectly straight, determined not to be afraid. Still, he kept his left arm back, his hand clutching Aurelia’s.

“Here,” he said. “I am the half-orc.”

Azariah approached, the feathers in his wings ruffling. He placed his hands on Harruq’s shoulders, knelt down, and kissed his forehead.

“People will exalt your name for centuries to come,” Azariah said. “Be free from your guilt. Ashhur’s grace will conquer this land, with you as the shining example.”

Harruq shifted, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. “If you say so,” he muttered.

“For Ashhur!” the angels shouted in unison, startling the mere mortals amid them. Their voice was a perfect chorus, full of force and determination. They shouted again, the sound washing away the pain and death of the bloodied field.

“For Ashhur!”

T he angels marched back to Mordeina, all the while singing songs of praise. Soldiers and citizens alike flooded the outer walls, desperate to get a glimpse. Many others climbed atop houses and stared, while others ran to the castle, and from atop the hill watched the approach of the golden army. The gates to the city flung open, and a great shout came from the people within.

Lost in their cheers was Haern, who still cried out in pain atop Sonowin’s back. Tarlak watched his approach, and used his magic to float himself down from the wall to the ground below. Gently he took Sonowin’s reins, all the while stroking her neck.

“I saw what you did,” he told the beautiful creature. “We’ll honor you forever.”

He led her back to the gate. At first no one moved to let him pass. The soldiers couldn’t hold back the torrent of people. Someone shouted an order, and then the guards gave way. People flooded out of the city, waving and shouting to the approaching angels. Tarlak tapped his foot and glared. When he realized the outpouring would never cease he waved a hand. The earth before him rose up in a giant spike. Slowly he pushed it forward, using it as a wedge to funnel people to either side. He made it through the gate and into the gap between the walls, where he finally had enough space to draw breath.

“Tarlak!” he heard a voice shout. The voice shouted again, and he realized who it was. He turned and waved to the top of the wall, where Mira smiled back.

“Wait for me there!” he shouted to her. Mira nodded and then spun about, giddy from watching the angels.

He pushed through to the Neldar camps, and it was there he found Bernard gathered with his priests. Many prayed, while others talked amongst themselves. Bernard smiled at the sight of them, but that smile vanished when he saw the severity of Haern’s injuries and the damage done to Sonowin’s wing.

“Your wing will have to wait,” he said to Sonowin as he hooked his arms around Haern’s chest and gently pulled him to the ground. Haern screamed, tears pouring down his face. His skin was pale, and cold sweat covered his body.

“I’d say he’s endured worse before,” Tarlak said. “But I’m not sure that’s true.”

Bernard gently applied pressure with his hands on Haern’s wrist, watching for a reaction. From there he moved down to his chest and then his legs. He prayed as he did so, but even his prayers halted at the breaks he found all throughout his body.

“Nothing fatal,” Bernard said when he finished. “But so many broken bones and bruises, his pain must be unbearable.”

Haern moaned, his head tilting side to side. Tarlak looked away, his gut wrenching at the sight of his friend suffering.

“Can you heal him?” Tarlak asked.

“I will try,” Bernard said. “It will take many days, and I fear he may never fully recover.”

A fresh shout of cheers flooded the city as the angels neared.

“Speaking of miracles,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

“Indeed,” Bernard said. The mage frowned, confused by the priest’s subdued reaction.

“Something wrong?” he asked. Bernard did not answer, instead praying to Ashhur while he laid his hands on Haern’s waist. Inside his body the bones snapped and shifted. Haern shrieked and then, thankfully, passed out.

“Nothing is wrong,” Bernard said, letting out a deep sigh. “The angels you see approaching are what we all pray and hope to be after our deaths, but they are not meant for this world.”

Bernard put his hands on the bruises covering Haern’s neck and closed his eyes. More healing magic flowed, the bruises fading from deep black to a barely visible blue.

“Our world is changing, though,” Bernard said. “Perhaps this last sign will be enough.”

T he angels entered the city like glorious conquerors returning home from a distant campaign. People raised their hands and cheered, while soldiers saluted with their swords and maces. The Eschaton walked amid them while Antonil’s men rode behind.

“What’s wrong?” Aurelia asked as they marched through the city toward the castle.

“It just seems all so… silly,” Harruq said as he gestured to the crowds.

“Just enjoy it,” Aurelia said, jabbing him in the side. “For once we’re loved and not hated.”

“This isn’t love,” Harruq said. “I’m not sure what it is, but it isn’t love.”

Queen Annabelle waited for them at the doors to her castle. Guards flanked her sides, all of them kneeling to the coming angels. The queen curtseyed at their arrival.

“Welcome,” she said, knowing her words would be repeated throughout the city. “You are the light from the west, the glory of the sun, Ashhur’s warrior angels sent to save us from Karak’s vile hand. All that I have is yours. All that you ask, I will do. Again, I cry to you, welcome!”

The crowd cheered. Ahaesarus bowed low.

“Well met, Queen,” he said. “For all my troops, I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Will you stay in my castle?” she asked. “I have many questions.”

“I will answer your questions,” he said. “But no, we will not stay in your castle. Ashhur has already granted us a home.”

At this he pointed to the western sky. It still shimmered gold, glowing from the angels’ arrival. As if on command the sky rumbled, and all throughout the city people marveled or cowered in fear. Harruq squinted with a hand over his eyes, trying to see. Again the west tore. It was as if the sky were cloth covering a window, and with the blue gone they could see a land stretching forever, golden and beautiful. From within that tear a city floated through, hovering on rock and stone that seemed impervious to the pull of gravity.

“Another miracle,” Lathaar said, his jaw dropping.

“Today seems to be a day for them,” Jerico said, laughing.

“Ashhur has given us a piece of the golden eternity to call our home,” Azariah explained as they looked upon the golden city floating high above. “It is there we will live and plan our war against those that would crush all life from this realm.”

As the rest of the crowd cheered, Bernard sadly shook his head from his perch beside Tarlak and Mira atop a stone house.

“Faith and choice,” he said. “Farewell.”

17

A ntonil walked through the hallways of the castle, feeling as if he walked on clouds. What had been a final, desperate defense had turned into a dominating victory. Instead of funeral songs there were victory chants. It was as if no one realized that the leaders of Karak’s army survived, and that deep inside Veldaren the portal still remained open, pouring out demons.

He turned right at the painting of a large, leafless tree, per the servant’s orders. He had been asleep in his tent among the Neldaren refugees when a young man had approached, giving him directions through the castle and telling him the queen waited. Sure enough, as the hallway suddenly ended, there she was. They were in a walled garden, with a few trees and several rows of flowers. The queen sat on one of the benches, gazing up at the stars.

“It is too early for most of the flowers to be in bloom,” she said at his arrival. “But I still find peace here.”

“The time is late,” Antonil said as he shifted his eyes upward. He realized it wasn’t the stars she looked at, but the twinkling city that floated like some golden land of a child’s fable. Avlimar, Ahaesarus had called it. Their home on Dezrel.

“I know,” said the queen. “But this matter is urgent. The angels want to give chase before the demons can escape back to Neldar. My soldiers are eager to join them.”

“You’ve already pulled in stores of food,” Antonil said. “You could have your army marching within a day. What is the problem?”

“The problem,” Annabelle said, finally lowering her gaze. “The problem is I am too old to go with them. I must remain here, and I must rule. I need someone to command my troops, someone they will respect and admire.”

Antonil blushed. “I am still a foreigner. Many will resent my authority.”

“I know,” the queen said. “That is why I propose a marriage. We will unite the two kingdoms that have split our great land.”

Antonil’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, as if trying to stir up some sense inside his skull.

“I have only met you twice,” he finally said.

Annabelle laughed. “Perhaps Neldar is different, but marriage here is more often political than anything involving love. You would have total authority to lead my soldiers back to Veldaren and reclaim your city. Your country has been decimated. It will take many resources to restore Neldar’s glory, resources you would suddenly have available to you. And don’t worry, Antonil, I am old. My time will not be long, and you can choose a new bride if you desire.”

It made sense to him, but still, the idea seemed so strange. He was still struggling to realize he himself was a king, and the idea of marrying the Queen of Mordan, and taking all its power and wealth into his own hand, well…

“I need to think this over,” he said.

Annabelle plucked a small flower, its petals only beginning to unfurl. She smiled as she put it in his hand and wrapped his fingers about it.

“Time is short. The ceremony will take time, and my soldiers must prepare for their campaign. Please, let me know as soon as you can.”

“I will, your majesty,” Antonil said, bowing. He hurried away, eager to return to his camp. Annabelle watched him go, another young flower twirling in her fingers.

J erico wandered through the bodies, a torch in hand. Lathaar followed, dragging a dead Neldaren soldier. With Jerico’s help, Lathaar tossed it onto a growing pile of dead, a soon-to-be pyre to burn away the enormous amount of corpses. Spread across the field were several other groups of soldiers, all building similar pyres. It would take the whole night, but neither paladin minded much. They wanted time alone to talk, and in the dark field after a battle, they felt isolated and secure.

“Remember the angel I said Ashhur sent to help me kill Darakken?” Lathaar asked as he tilted his head to one side and popped his neck. “That was Judarius. I even had a chance to thank him.”

“Crazy world,” Jerico said, hoisting another rotten body onto the pyre. “And I’d say it just got crazier.”

“The world can only be better by their arrival,” Lathaar said. “Finally, a balancing force for Ashhur. After the fall of the citadel and Veldaren’s destruction, we could use the hope.”

Jerico shifted his torch to his left hand and grabbed the wrist of what looked to be a dead, rotted orc. He grunted when the bone snapped and he stumbled back holding a clump of fingers. He frowned and tossed them onto the pyre.

“Yeah, it looked bleak,” Jerico said. “But you were there among the refugees. You remember their prayers. They were desperate for salvation, hungry for it for the first time in their lives. Now, even those that never prayed, never humbled, cheer as if they won some great victory.”

“Didn’t we?” Lathaar asked.

Before Jerico could answer, they heard shouts from a group further south. The two paladins hurried over, and as they neared they saw bodies of dozens of horses lying twisted and bleeding on the ground. The dead riders were a tangled mass of dark paladins and soldiers of Neldar.

“This is where they met,” Jerico said as they approached.

“What is the matter?” Lathaar asked two men who stood over a body with torches raised high. They were soaked with sweat.

“He’s alive,” one of them said, pointing.

Lathaar drew his swords, and in their light he saw the face of the one they spoke of.

“Leave us,” Lathaar said. “Now.”

The two did as they were told. Lathaar walked closer, and Jerico felt his skin crawl at the soft, maniacal laugh that emanated forth.

“I was hoping it’d be any other than you,” the dark paladin said, choking as he laughed. “Looks like Karak has truly forsaken me.”

Krieger lay on his back, his arms spread wide. His horse lay atop his legs, its weight having crushed his armor inward so everything below his waist was a bloody, broken mess. One of his scimitars lay trapped beneath the horse, the other, just out of reach.

“You’ve always been forsaken,” Lathaar said, his face darkening in the blue-light of his swords. “You just never knew it.”

“I was the stronger,” Krieger said. “I die knowing that.”

“No,” Jerico said, interrupting the two. “You’ll die knowing you lost. You’ll die knowing we lived.”

Before either could react, Jerico shoved Lathaar, tumbling him to the ground away from the trapped dark paladin. As Krieger spat, Jerico grabbed his mace, took a step forward, and swung. He crushed the side of Krieger’s face, broke his neck, and splattered blood about the grass. Jerico shook a bit of the gore off his weapon before clipping it to his belt.

“He was mine to kill!” Lathaar shouted as he stood. “You knew that!”

“Your feud is over,” Jerico said, his voice quiet and firm. “A feud that dragged itself far below the ideals that started it. You wanted to prove yourself, not Ashhur. It’s over.”

Lathaar lowered his weapons, staring at Krieger’s mutilated face and praying for his rage to cease. He almost felt cheated. Three times they had faced off, but never once reaching the finality each of them sought.

“Forgive me,” Lathaar said, sheathing his swords and shaking his head. “Guess that’s why you’re the wiser of us.”

“Just get over here and help me free his body,” Jerico said, tugging on Krieger’s arms. “He’s in here good.”

“Remove his armor,” Lathaar said. “Might be able to slip him out if he weighs less.”

Jerico knelt to one knee, propping Krieger’s body on his shoulder. He winced as blood trickled onto him.

“Got the buckles,” he said, yanking several free. With a shudder he stepped back and let the body hit the ground. Lathaar yanked off Krieger’s breastplate, grunting at how much it weighed. He dropped it aside, where it hit the ground with a thud. As Lathaar caught his breath, he tilted his head and pointed.

“What the Abyss is that?” he asked.

Jerico reached down and yanked on the chain wrapped around Krieger’s neck. Attached was a large pendant. It was charred and scratched, but both had just seen one remarkably similar. Through the damage they saw the faint image of a lion roaring atop a mountain.

“Azariah’s pendant,” Lathaar said.

He reached out and touched it with his bare hand. He screamed. His hand blackened. He fell to his knees, and three times he vomited blood.

“Lathaar!” Jerico shouted, but Lathaar was already fading away, his vision a swirling image of blood, shadow, and chaos.

“L athaar!”

Lathaar opened his eyes, feeling drugged and sleepy.

“What?” he muttered. He tried to roll over, but his body refused to obey.

“Praise Ashhur,” he heard Jerico say. Lathaar ignored him. He was tired, too tired, and from what little his eyes saw he knew it was night. Didn’t Jerico know he needed sleep?

“My chest hurts,” Lathaar said. “Wait until morning.”

“Not a chance,” Jerico said. Lathaar felt hands wrap around his body, and he heard a scream as his weight shifted into Jerico’s arms. He realized moments later the scream was his own. He thought he was on Jerico’s shoulder, and perhaps his feet were dragging, but what was so important?

“Stay with me,” he heard Jerico say as he faded away.

He dreamt of shadows that stretched for miles, filled with teeth and claws that tore into his flesh and broke his bones and bathed in his blood.

“O pen your eyes, paladin.”

Lathaar groaned and refused. Why couldn’t people let him sleep? He listened to what appeared to be a conversation, but it was a strange one, because all the voices sounded the same to him.

“We didn’t know what it was.”

“Nor could you have.”

“Will he survive?”

“The evil within it is strong. Karak held it in his own hands and blessed it.”

“The pendant… it’s the same as yours, isn’t it?”

“The mark of the most high priest, just before the gods’ war. I was Ashhur’s. This pendant here could only belong to one other.”

“Velixar.”

“Leave him alone,” Lathaar said as he heard the name. “You leave… you leave him alone.”

“Lathaar? Wake up, Lathaar, you have to fight this! Fight it!”

He dreamt of a thousand mouths filled with white teeth that shone in the dark, and all of them laughed at him, laughed and laughed as he felt total helplessness and abandonment.

Light pierced the darkness. He felt hope. The mouths ceased their laughing, and instead they wailed in anger.

F or a brief moment, Lathaar thought he had died and gone to the eternity. The walls were gold. The ceiling was marble. He was in a bed, the sheets a brilliant white. Paintings of trees and mountains decorated the room. He started as the large door opened, and in walked an angel.

“You’re awake,” the angel said. “Excellent.”

“Where am I?” Jerico asked.

“Avlimar. You’ve been here for several days under Azariah’s care.”

“What happened to me?” Lathaar asked. He tried to remember, but all he could see in his mind was fire, darkness, and teeth. The clothes on his body were wet with sweat, and as he shifted off the bed he realized his armor was gone. The floor was cold against his bare feet.

“In time,” the angel said. “But first, there are others who would like to see you.”

The angel left, and a moment later Jerico entered the room, a gigantic grin on his face. Tarlak followed, wagging his finger at him.

“No scaring us like that again,” Tarlak said. “Or so help me, I’ll make sure you don’t wake up next time.”

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Jerico said, bear-hugging Lathaar. “I thought we had lost you.”

“I’m too stubborn for that,” Lathaar said. He gently pushed Jerico away, his whole body covered with aches. “And why do I feel like I was run over by a battering ram?”

“That pendant you found,” Tarlak said, plopping down in a golden chair with gigantic red cushions. “That was one doozy of a magical item. Touching it, well, that was like hopping into a volcano to see if the lava’s hot. Suffice to say, you got burned.”

Jerico vanished outside the room and reappeared with a handful of Lathaar’s armor.

“Sorry to hurry you, but you need to put that on,” Jerico said. “Otherwise we might be late for Antonil’s wedding.”

Lathaar paused and raised an eyebrow.

“Care to repeat that?” he asked.

“Antonil and Annabelle are getting married,” Tarlak said. “King and Queen, uniting Mordan and Neldar in a blessed union of political convenience. As for the honeymoon, Antonil’s leading her armies across the nation to take back Veldaren. Romantic, eh?”

“Incredibly,” Lathaar said, pulling on an undershirt. “But what about the pendant?”

“Just get dressed,” Tarlak said. “Wedding now, object of doom later.”

Jerico had wasted away the hours waiting for Lathaar to recuperate by polishing and cleaning both their armor, so when they emerged from Lathaar’s room both gleamed in the light. Tarlak frowned and covered one of his eyes with a hand.

“I’m blind!” he said.

“Quit exaggerating,” Jerico said.

“You’re awake,” said the angel that had helped care for Lathaar. “Good. Follow me. I have several of my brethren ready to fly you back down to Mordeina.”

“Lead the way,” said Tarlak.

They hurried down the hallway. Lathaar walked with his mouth hanging open, mesmerized by the golden walls, the intricately crafted candelabras, and the many paintings of Dezrel. They passed by several windows, and through the glass he saw a stretch of green grass followed by nothing but sky.

“Amazing,” Lathaar said.

“You get used to it,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

They exited two giant doors made of dark stained oak. Three angels waited for them. They bowed at their arrival.

“Welcome,” one of them said. “We are pleased by your recovery, Lathaar. All our hearts have been heavy by word of your illness.”

“And you have my thanks,” Lathaar said, bowing in return and doing his best to appear far healthier than he felt.

“Take our hands,” the angels said. “And try not to panic.”

One after another grabbed the wrists of their charge and rose into the air.

When they landed just inside the city walls, Tarlak whooped and hollered and smacked both paladins on the shoulders.

“We are never doing that again,” Jerico said as he fell to his knees and clutched the grass.

“What, you guys didn’t have fun?” Tarlak asked.

The paladins glared.

“The wedding starts soon,” one of the angels said. “You must hurry. King Antonil has prepared a place of honor for you.”

“About time I started getting some reward for all our hard work,” Tarlak said.

The wedding festival spread from the castle outward throughout the city. Lathaar shook his head as they passed by colored streamers made of cloth and rows and rows of lit candles.

“You’d think there wasn’t a war going on,” he said.

“We won,” Tarlak said, grinning at the paladin. “You think it matters the enemy’s still alive and kicking? Just endure the show. We’ll be chasing after Karak’s pets soon enough.”

Antonil and Annabelle waited atop the stairs before the castle, the hill high enough that most of the city’s inhabitants could look upon them, if not from the streets then from the rooftops of their homes. In what was a switch for the city, a priest of Ashhur, not Karak, led the procession.

“Flank the sides of the stairs,” Tarlak told the paladins. The ceremony was yet to start, and the hum of conversation was strong and constant. Tarlak slipped in beside Harruq and Aurelia, winking at the two of them.

“Nice of you to dress up,” he said to Harruq. “You even wore pants.”

“Keep it up,” Harruq said. “Another crack like that and I’ll make you bald again.”

“Play nice,” Aurelia said, jabbing both with her elbows.

“Did Lathaar make it through all right?” Harruq asked.

Tarlak gestured to where Lathaar and Jerico stood opposite of each other at the foot of the stairs.

“Looks like it,” he said. “Roughed him up pretty bad, but he survived. Let’s hope the same for Antonil. The queen may be old, but I think she can give him a good run.”

“Tarlak!” Aurelia shouted as loud as she dared. Tarlak winced, fully expecting a spell to turn him into a lizard. None came.

“Once this is over,” the elf said, crossing her arms. “You are in deep trouble.”

“Yes, mother,” Tarlak said. Again he winced. No polymorph spell.

Harruq took Aurelia’s hand in his and held her closer as trumpets blared, signaling the start of the wedding.

D eep inside a well-worn mansion seven men gathered wearing gray robes. A fire burned between them in a stone pit, but it gave off no smoke. The seven finished their chant, and the leader among them spoke.

“Our time here is limited,” he said. “And our lives in danger. As we once persecuted priests and paladins of Ashhur, so now are we persecuted. So quickly Mordeina turns her back to our Lord.”

“A reminder,” said one of the seven.

“Yes,” said another. “They need a reminder.”

“Hayden was our greatest, but he will not be our last,” said their leader. “And Karak has spoken to me in dreams. This is still our world’s final moments. Our great prophet remains, spurned and angry. But Karak whispers to me of a second prophet, one we must be wary of. We must be diligent. We must be strong. Above all, we must hold faith.”

“What are we to do?” one asked.

“You said it best,” said the leader. “We give them a reminder.”

“W ith great joy I stand before these two individuals,” Bernard said, his voice carrying far in the silence that had fallen over the crowds. “King and queen of different nations, but coming together in peace and unity. No wounds are too old, no pain too great. Love heals. A simple statement, perhaps, but it is true, and it is powerful.”

Harruq squeezed Aurelia’s hand and leaned over.

“Our wedding didn’t take half this long,” he whispered.

T he seven raised their arms to the ceiling, their hearts throbbing in their chests. Desperate pleas for power poured from their lips. They called for a sign. They called for a message of truth and warning for their city. They called for a revival. The fire flared higher and higher, its strength tied to the strength of their prayers.

“A name,” one of the priests suddenly shouted. “I hear a name!”

The others heard it as well, strong in their ears. Their leader fell to his knees, and he cried out to his god.

“I am unworthy,” he shouted. “Please, pass the burden to another.”

“Take it!” the priests cried. “Take the name offered!”

The fire soared, a brilliant orange and yellow pillar in the gigantic room. Their leader bowed his head and accepted Karak’s will.

“Then let my old name be forgotten,” he said. “Melorak is now my name.”

The other priests cheered, delighted at the long-prophesied arrival of Dezrel’s conqueror. The true Melorak closed his eyes and lifted his palms to the ceiling.

“Let all of Mordan hear our anger,” he said.

T he exchange of rings done, Bernard began the final instruction of the ceremony.

“Each of you holds the love of the other in your heart. Keep it sacred, and keep it close,” he said. “Queen Annabelle, I now pronounce you of the family Copernus. King Antonil, you may…”

He stopped, his skin turning pale and his eyes widening. Whispers spread throughout the crowd.

“Bernard?” Antonil asked.

The ground shook. Wind blew down the streets, random in its swirling. The sky darkened. The rows of angels that surrounded the castle drew their swords as if for battle. Screams of fear and pain pierced the wind as people fled, trampling others too slow to move.

“What’s going on?” Harruq shouted as he clutched Aurelia’s hand and held her close.

“The sky,” Tarlak said. “Damn it all to the Abyss.”

The roar of the lion shook the city. Its sound rumbled through their chests and pierced their hearts. The ground recoiled and broke. People fled to their homes, and the new king and queen hurried to their castle for safety. Those outside looked to the darkened sky, and all who saw it knew what it meant.

Shimmering as if it were made of a thousand red stars, the image of a lion rippled in the air, its eyes angry, its teeth bared, and its claws outstretched. Twice more it roared, cracking walls and rendering the roads broken and uneven.

Harruq watched as a group of angels flew toward the craven image. Azariah led them, his amulet in hand. As one they raised their right hands and shouted out the name of Ashhur. Holy light pulsed about their fingers. The image of the lion shook, its power fading. Again and again the angels prayed, until the wind died, the sky filled with light, and the lion broke apart.

“Just like in Veldaren,” Tarlak said as an uneasy calm settled over the city.

“We have an army to chase,” Harruq said, looking over the wall to the east as Mira and the paladins joined them. “Perhaps now the city will remember that.”

Ahaesarus landed beside them, his beautiful face marred with anger.

“We leave at the rise of the sun,” he said, glaring at where the image had been. “We have waited long enough.”

“Antonil’s army won’t be ready by then,” Tarlak argued.

“Then they can chase after us,” Ahaesarus said. “Prepare your mercenaries, unless you wish to stay behind.”

Tarlak glanced around at his Eschaton, who all nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. “All of us.”

“Good,” said Ahaesarus. “Be ready.”

He flew back to Avlimar, his angels following.

“We’ll be outnumbered,” Mira said when he was gone. “Even with Antonil’s men.”

“So be it,” Tarlak said. “We just fled across an entire continent. For once, I want to be the one giving chase. All of you, prepare your things. We’re leaving at dawn.”

The Eschaton did as they were told. Their resting was done. They had a war to fight.

18

T he three of them huddled before a fire, feeling isolated amid the remnants of the demon army. Qurrah seethed in silence, pondering Harruq’s eyes and the glow of his swords. He went over their battle again and again. At no point had his brother tried to score a killing blow. He had struck with the hilt of his swords, or at his legs and hands. Compared to their previous battle after Aullienna’s death, the whole ordeal seemed tame. Qurrah was baffled.

“What do we do now?” Tessanna asked, disrupting his thoughts.

“We rebuild,” Velixar said. His arms were crossed, and he bent toward the fire as if he were ready to plunge his face into the embers. “We cannot collapse now, not so close to victory.”

“The demons have already replenished their numbers,” Qurrah said. “I feel the strain of their passing with every breath I take.”

“As do I,” Velixar said. “But we must endure.”

“It’s been months since we first opened the portal,” Qurrah said, rubbing his temples. “I am flesh and bone, Velixar. I will break soon, as will you.”

“I am not weak,” Velixar said, his eyes looking up from the fire. For a moment they flared a bright red, a bit of his old self reemerging.

“Neither of you are weak,” Tessanna said. She curled her knees to her chest and hid her face behind her arms. “But you’re dying. You can’t do this forever. But they want more from you, and they’ll keep taking and taking until you can’t stand, can’t fight, can’t do anything…”

They hushed as Ulamn approached. He had taken off his helmet, and if not for the darkness of his eyes and the multitude of scars on his face, he could have passed as one of the angels they had just fought.

“We will fly for much of the distance,” Ulamn said. “Uncomfortable as it may be for you, we will travel much faster that way. Ashhur’s angels will give chase, and we cannot fight them, not until we reinforce our numbers from Veldaren.”

“What of my priests, my paladins?” Velixar asked.

“They have forsaken you,” Ulamn said. “You know this as well as I. You both are too important to leave our side. You stay with us. If we’re lucky, your disloyal brethren will buy us time. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow will be long.”

He bowed and left. Velixar shook his head, and his features shifted between sadness and anger.

“So many good paladins,” he said. “So many faithful. I will make them pay. All of them.”

Qurrah grabbed Tessanna’s elbow and stood.

“We must rest,” he said. Velixar dismissed them with a wave, not watching them go. They hurried away. Qurrah wasn’t ready for sleep, but he couldn’t stand seeing Velixar in such a state.

“He vows revenge,” Tessanna said, echoing his thoughts. “But what strength does he have to keep such a promise?”

“He doesn’t,” Qurrah said. “And neither do I.”

Tessanna kissed her lover’s cheek, but her comfort was hollow. Never before had she hated Karak as much as she did then.

T arlak slipped inside the room, trying not to make any noise.

“I’m awake,” Haern said from his bed, his eyes still closed. “And beaten or not, my ears still work.”

They were in a dark, windowless infirmary within the castle. There were many beds, but only Haern, with so many bones broken and shattered, remained.

“We’re giving chase,” Tarlak said, sitting on the bed. “About an hour from now. Antonil’s army will follow in a day or two.”

“I should go with you,” Haern said, frowning.

“You’re damn lucky to even be alive,” Tarlak said. “Trying to travel so soon will kill you.”

“You leave to banish a demonic army from our world, and you expect me to stay and hope for the best?” Haern asked.

The wizard gently squeezed the assassin’s shoulder.

“I expect you to get better,” he said, his point made clear by the pain flashing over Haern’s face. “You want to chase after us in a few weeks, you go right ahead. I hope we have a victory party waiting for you in Veldaren.”

Haern sat up enough to hug Tarlak goodbye, then collapsed back onto the bed.

“Tarlak?” Haern said, right before he left.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” Haern said. “For how I’ve been.”

“Apology accepted,” Tarlak said, winking. “See you in the months ahead.”

He left. Haern tried to sit up, tried to ignore the pain flaring throughout his body. He couldn’t, and he crashed back onto the bed, groaning and covered with sweat.

W ith much fanfare the angels departed, hundreds and hundreds of winged soldiers in perfect formations. The Eschaton rode in the arms of the angels, their weight seemingly nothing to their powerful white wings. They flew east in pursuit of the demons.

Antonil watched them go from the outer wall, scratching at his chin as he did.

“Itching to go with them?” his old general Sergan asked. “Can’t say I blame you.”

“I just led thousands of refugees across the continent,” Antonil said. “And now I am to travel back with an army at my command. To think, I always thought King Vaelor had it easy.”

“He did have it easy,” Sergan said. He plopped his ax to the stone and leaned on its hilt, staring after the rapidly fading army. “He sat on his throne, issued paranoid edicts, and expected respect without earning it. You, however, have led your people as needed, fought beside them, bled with them, and gave everything you had. A good king, that’s what I see.”

“And if we fail?” Antonil asked, turning toward his trusted friend. “And if I lead so many to their deaths, and return to Mordeina with her army broken, her food spent, and the whole world lost to fire?”

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.”

T he 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.”

T hat 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 still 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.

T he 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.

H aern 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 victory.

“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.”

“We’re trying to find them,” Deathmask said. “They’re far cleverer than I anticipated. Give us time. We’ll…”

He stopped as Mier and Nien entered the garden. Their clothes were torn, and blood ran from open wounds on their faces.

“My god,” Annabelle said, staring open mouthed at the twins.

“Queen’s room wasn’t safe,” said Mier.

“Not safe at all,” said Nien.

“Damn it,” Deathmask said as both collapsed to the grass. “Now I need a healer.”

He made a rude gesture to the sky as the lion roared one last time before fading away.

T hat next morning, Haern awoke to find Bernard sleeping one bed over in the infirmary.

“This is a switch,” Haern said as he propped himself up on his elbow. He winced when he saw the priest’s right hand, just a stump wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Ignoring his aches, he stepped off the bed. It didn’t look like he’d be receiving too much healing magic anymore.

Normally the queen had a large breakfast with advisors, nobles, and members of her guard, but the previous night had put a damper on things. Instead, a few servant girls kept some soup warmed over a small fire and handed out fresh bread to those that wanted it. Haern ate in the gigantic hall, looking at banner after banner representing the kings of old. Most were ugly, but a few he wouldn’t mind wearing as a tabard, if he absolutely had to. As he ate, Veliana sat down next to him, holding a small wooden bowl filled with soup.

“How’d you get in here?” Haern asked as he took a bite of his bread.

“Irrelevant,” Veliana said, dipping her bread in the soup. “Although we don’t normally ask for help, you come from the ranks of thieves and murderers, so you’re more trustworthy than most.”

“I also policed you thieves and murderers in the name of the king,” Haern said. “Is that irrelevant too?”

“Mostly,” she said, taking a bite. She winked at him with her lone good eye. “But it does mean you were strong enough to survive hundreds of assassination attempts. That probably means something.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

She waited until she had finished half her bowl before speaking.

“We want the same thing. We want those priests dead. Once done, you can get on with your life, and we can get on with our business. You can even police us again, if you’d like, but I doubt that will be necessary. There will be no rival guilds to us, not like in Veldaren.”

“I’m not fully recovered,” Haern said.

“Still better at swordplay than anyone else in this city,” she said. “And I doubt you’ve lost your stealth.”

She stood, smoothing out her shirt and tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.

“Besides, you don’t need to fight them,” she said. “Find them, and we’ll do the rest.”

“How will I find you? ” he asked.

She tossed him a coin. It was bronze. One side was blank, and the other, imprinted with the image of a skull.

“Kiss the skull,” she said, again winking. “I’ll come running.”

She left him to finish his breakfast. He rolled the coin over his knuckles, thinking things over. His gut told him if the priests were still inside the city, Deathmask would have already found them. That meant they were outside the walls, and he knew of only one person who could track anything or anyone in the wild.

He finished his bowl and wiped his face. It was time to find Dieredon.

H e had expected Dieredon to leave with Antonil and his men, but underestimated Sonowin’s injuries. He found the two just outside the walls. Dieredon sat with his bow on his back while Sonowin limped along, eating clumps of grass. Haern winced at the sight of her. Her right wing was folded tight against her side, several long bandages holding it firmly in place. He felt terrible guilt knowing she had endured that to save him.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said as Dieredon stood and bowed.

“It is fine,” Dieredon said. “They wanted to keep her in a stable, cramped and without room for her wings. Sometimes your race worries me, Watcher.”

“Haern is fine,” he said. “With Veldaren most likely in rubble, I’m not sure I could claim that title anymore.”

Dieredon nodded at the reminder that he was not alone in his suffering.

“Forgive me,” the elf said. “I care for her is all. I’m not sure she will ever fly again.”

“Perhaps Ashhur will be kind and her wing will grow strong,” Haern said. “But please forgive me, for I come asking aid.”

“The lion in the sky,” Dieredon said. “I saw it last night. The priests are not going to die without a fight.”

“We need to stop them,” Haern said.

Dieredon could easily see where this was heading.

“If they’re outside the city, I can find them,” he said. “I’ll start searching come nightfall. Meet me here in the morning. When I find them, I will tell you where they are.”

“Thank you,” Haern said, bowing low. “I will never be able to repay you for all you have done.”

“Live well,” Dieredon said. “It is payment enough.”

T wo days later Haern met Dieredon in the field. By the look on the elf’s face, he knew something was amiss.

“Did you find them?” he asked.

“I did,” Dieredon said. “But there is something you must see.”

“What is it?”

“No,” Dieredon said. “Meet me here after dusk. I will show you.”

H ours later, the two ran silently toward the south. Speed and stealth was their specialty. Dieredon led the way, his wicked bow slung across his back. Haern kept his sabers sheathed, but when they neared the first set of hills, he felt his heart racing so he drew them.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“The craghills,” Dieredon said. “At least, that was how it was once known. What it is becoming, well…” He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

He led them to the top of a hill, and from there he pointed to the rows and rows of undead that stood as silent, sleepless guardians. Several fires lined the camp, and all about he saw priests and dark paladins. Directly in the center was a single object, constructed of stone and wood. It looked like an idol of some sort, but it certainly wasn’t of Karak.

“What is going on here?” Haern asked. “How could there be so many?”

“Our victory was shallow,” Dieredon said. “Karak’s army fled before suffering any major casualties. We assumed they traveled with the demons toward Veldaren. We were wrong.”

“We need to stop them,” Haern whispered. “Somehow.”

“There is more ill news,” Dieredon said. He trudged back down the hill and brushed away a large patch of grass taller than his thigh, revealing a tunnel dug deep into the earth.

“I found several of these,” he said as Haern peered within. “And I even followed one to its end. They lead underneath the walls. They’re getting in and out at will. I closed up the few I found, but there are many more, and they lead all throughout the city.”

“They were ready for this,” Haern said. “They couldn’t have dug these in the past few days.”

“How many years?” Dieredon asked. “How long have they controlled the hearts and minds of Mordan’s people?”

“I don’t know,” Haern said, shaking his head. “But far too long. Let’s head back to the city. I have a few friends I need to talk to.”

Dieredon covered the hole back up with grass and sprinted north, Haern at his heels. Behind them, Karak’s army continued building their strange contraption.

F or seven nights, the lion roared in the sky. The entire city remained on edge, sleep often impossible. Guards remained constantly alert. And then the killings started.

“Shadows,” Deathmask said as they gathered around the bloodied body in the middle of the street.

“They’re targeting at random now,” Haern said, sadly shaking his head. “There’s no way we can stop this.”

“We can,” Deathmask said, glaring at the roaring lion shimmering amid the stars. “If someone had the guts to do what must be done.”

“Leave the walls?” Dieredon said. “Leave them for open warfare with the few soldiers we have left?”

“The walls don’t matter,” Nien said.

“They just pass through,” Mier said.

“We stay,” Haern said. “Until we know their plan, we stay.”

“Stubborn mule,” Deathmask said, scattering ash over his face. “But again, that’s hardly a surprise.”

He and his guild separated, each of them eager to hunt for shadows and priests. Only Dieredon and Haern remained.

“The city reeks of fear,” Dieredon said. He gestured to the corpse. “This will only make it worse.”

“We keep the queen safe, and protect the city best we can,” Haern said. “But it’s been a week. Have you returned to their camp?”

The elf shook his head. “Not yet, but I shall. If they plan on marching against the walls, I want to be ready.”

“The night is still young,” Haern said. “Go now.”

Dieredon bowed, drew his bow, and raced down the street.

“We won’t lose this,” Haern said, staring down at the mutilated body of a young man. “Not so close to victory. We won’t lose. We can’t.”

He drew his sabers and leaped to the rooftops, searching for signs of another attack.

D ieredon crept across the hill, shifting his weight with every inch to leave no sign of his passing. His eyes narrowed at sight of the camp. The object in the center appeared closer to completion. It looked like a gigantic lion reared back on its hind legs with its mouth open in a roar. Priests surrounded it, either worshiping, praying, or casting spells; he couldn’t decide which. Hundreds of undead marched in a circle around the camp, a constant guard against attack.

Where are the paladins? he wondered. The past two times he’d seen several of them milling about, a pathetic remnant of their former numbers.

He heard a soft rustle of grass just behind him. Dieredon spun, grabbing his bow and swinging. Blades snapped out the ends. They smashed into the gray robes, cutting flesh but drawing no blood. Dieredon felt his heart skip a beat as a man with glowing red eyes pointed a finger at him.

“You should not interfere,” said the priest. A wave of black mist rolled from his body. Dieredon felt his mind blank, and the muscles in his body tensed and twisted.

“You can’t be,” Dieredon said through clenched teeth. “You can’t be another.”

“I am not the prophet,” the priest said, yanking the bow out of his leg. “I am not even worthy to travel at his side. My name is Melorak, a humble servant of our glorious god. What does this city matter to you, elf? They chased your kind away, slaughtered thousands as they burned your forests and poisoned your waters.”

“You hurt Sonowin,” Dieredon said, the muscles in his body returning to his control. “That’s more than enough.”

He rolled, avoiding a black arrow that shot from the man’s finger. Several more followed, but he flipped to his feet, spun, and leaped, his right heel smashing into Melorak’s face. Dieredon winced, feeling as if he kicked stone, but the priest staggered back, blood spurting from his nose.

“Be gone from here!” Melorak shouted. Waves of power rolled from his body, each one like a board of wood slamming into Dieredon. He hid his head and braced himself, enduring each blow. When they ended he uncurled, grabbing his bow and leaping backward.

“I’ve fought your better,” he said, drawing an arrow. “Compared to Velixar, you’re nothing.”

He released the arrow, its aim true. It should have pierced through Melorak’s right eye, but instead it halted in air an inch from his face.

“He may be my better,” Melorak said. “But I am far from nothing.”

Dieredon fired several more arrows, each one halting as if gripped by invisible hands. One by one they turned around, their glistening tips aimed straight at him. A wave of Melorak’s hand and the arrows resumed their travel. The elf twisted and fell, the arrows whizzing by his body, all but one, which tore through the flesh of his leg.

“How long have you been a champion for the elves?” Melorak asked as he twirled his hands, summoning a gigantic ball of flame at his feet. “How long have you represented the pinnacle of skill with blade and bow?”

Dieredon clutched his bleeding leg and glared.

“Always questions,” Dieredon said as the ball of flame grew. “Why does your kind have to ask so many damn questions?”

He somersaulted into the air as the ball rolled across the ground, spitting globs of fire in all directions. When he landed he collapsed, his injured leg unable to support his weight. He gritted his teeth, holding in a scream. A blast of red lightning from Melorak’s hand released it.

“I question because I am considered the liar,” Melorak said. “I question because I am seen as evil. But what are you, if you cannot answer? Certainly not good. Certainly not truth.”

Dieredon twirled his bow in his hands, tensed on his one good leg, and then lunged. Melorak cast a shielding spell, but the enchantments on his bow were strong, and the sharp spike on the end punched through the shield, through his upraised hand, and through the flesh of his throat. Dieredon kicked him in the chest, twisted his bow, and then yanked it free. Melorak collapsed to his knees, gagging and clutching his bleeding throat.

“Like I said,” Dieredon said, breathing heavily. “Nothing.”

Light flared around the priest’s hands. The flesh on his neck stitched together. The blood dried and flaked away. Melorak gasped in air as if emerging from deep within a pool of water.

“Nothing?” he said, his voice hoarse. The red in his eyes flared bright. “You fool. You blind, arrogant fool.”

He outstretched both hands, a swirling black and red vortex on his palms. Two beams of magic shot from them, slamming into Dieredon’s chest. He flew several feet from the impact before rolling down the hill like a rag doll. Melorak wiped blood from his nose and spat out a chunk of red phlegm.

“Leave my camp,” he said to Dieredon as the elf struggled to a stand. “If you’re wise, you’ll leave the city entirely. Return to your kind. I have no quarrel with you.”

Dieredon said nothing. He limped away, accepting his good fortune to still be alive. Melorak watched him go, a grim smile on his face. He had fought the best the city had to offer, and won. No longer did he hold any secret doubts. The siege was guaranteed. Soon, very soon, the city would be his.

T hat morning, Haern and Dieredon gathered atop the outer wall and watched Karak’s army approach. The undead led the way, hundreds of rotting corpses lumbering mindlessly in long rows. The tested followed, singing hymns with their skeletal hands raised skyward. Dark paladins followed next, their black armor shining. The priests were last, surrounding Melorak as if he were a king. In the center of the army rolled a gigantic lion carved atop a massive cart pushed by a combination of tested and undead.

“Will they assault?” a nearby soldier asked the two.

“No,” Dieredon said. “They’re too patient. Our army is marching across the nations. They have all the time in the world for a siege.”

A few hundred feet out of bow range they stopped and spread out. The undead circled the city, the majority of the army staying before the gates. They rolled the giant lion forward, and from its mouth clouds of black smoke billowed out.

“What is its purpose?” Haern wondered aloud.

Dieredon had no answer, and so they watched as it neared the outer ring of undead. The priests began chanting. The smoke poured out thicker and lower. Melorak joined in the chant. The smoke took on an unearthly quality, falling like water from the lion’s mouth and splitting into two rivers. These rivers surrounded the city, rolling up to the walls like waves at a shore. It stained the wall black wherever it touched.

“Completely surrounded,” Dieredon said as the undead began circling the city in a slow, lumbering ring. “And I fear what might happen should someone living touch that smoke.”

“How long can we last?” Haern asked. “How much food do we have?”

“A month or two,” Dieredon said. “I checked our storehouses. The army left and took everything with it.”

High above, the lion roared, well aware of how close its victory was.

19

“I swear,” Harruq said, stretching his arms behind his back and wincing as his muscles twitched painfully. “We were not meant to travel by air.”

“I find it rather comfortable,” Aurelia said, sitting next to him on the grass, a cozy fire before them. “It murders my hair, but the pace is swift, and the land beautiful.”

“Only reason you’re comfortable is because your angel’s got you held so tight he might as well marry you tomorrow,” the half-orc grumbled. “Me, on the other hand, I must smell since I’m hanging by my arms waiting for a really tall tree to say hello.”

“I weigh less,” Aurelia said, sticking her tongue out at him. “I can’t help if that has benefits.”

“The one truly benefiting is that angel,” Tarlak said as he joined them at their fire. “And let me say, I’d switch positions in a heartbeat.”

“With me or with my angel?” Aurelia asked, winking.

“Always wanted a tryst with a man with feathers,” Tarlak said.

“You both need help,” Harruq said, massaging his wrists. They had traveled for a week, carried by their arms or waists by the angels as they chased the demon soldiers. The day was nearing its end, and so they camped in a wide field beside a creek. The grass was short and thick, and to their aching muscles it felt like a luxurious royal carpet.

“Antonil’s troops are falling behind,” Harruq said, glancing west, where small tufts of smoke many miles away revealed their location. “But I think I’d prefer horseback and marching over this.”

As the sun set, one by one, fires filled the camp and the sharp sound of ringing steel grew in frequency and intensity. Harruq heard the sound and felt an itching in his fingertips. Many angels were sparring, trying to stay sharp amid the countless hours of tedious flight.

“Haern’s not here,” Tarlak said. “But perhaps you can spar with them.”

“Guess I could use a warm-up,” Harruq said as he stood. “After Haern, who here’s going to compare?”

He wandered deeper into the angels’ camp. He felt a little intimidated by their height, and the folded up wings against their backs only enhanced their difference. Strangely timid, he found a trio of angels taking turns sparring and quietly watched them. Their fighting style seemed strange, a jarring mix of brutal strength and careful, weaving feints. After several minutes, one of them saw him watching and nodded.

“Care for an attempt?” asked the loser of the last match. Another angel nearby laughed. Harruq drew his swords and twirled them in his hands. The others stepped away, giving him room to face his opponent, who wielded a large sword in both hands.

“I promise not to hurt you,” Harruq said, a grin on his face. The angel feinted a low slash, shifted his weight, and then swung for Harruq’s shoulder. The half-orc slapped it aside, stepped forward, and placed his other blade on the angel’s neck.

“Don’t patronize me,” Harruq said, his voice deepening into a growl.

The angel’s wide eyes, however, revealed how little he had held back.

“Mortals can’t move that fast,” he said.

“Then you haven’t fought enough mortals,” Harruq said, stepping back and falling into a defensive stance, both his swords at ready. “Again?”

The angel swung. Harruq blocked with both his blades, grunting at the strength of the impact. The angel stepped to the side and then thrust for Harruq’s chest. Instead it cut air, for Harruq spun, smacking aside the blade with his elbow as his own swords twirled above his head. When he finished the spin the angel’s sword was raised high, blocking Condemnation’s chop, but Salvation slipped underneath, its sharp tip jabbing against the top of the angel’s chest piece.

By now a crowd had formed, with a couple laughing and clapping when he scored the hit.

“Let me have a try,” an angel said, grabbing his mace and stepping forward. Harruq bowed, dodged his initial swing, and then smacked him twice in the back. Another competitor approached, wielding a gigantic sword. Again the fight lasted only seconds, with Harruq dancing around a few slow but powerful hits before slapping the angel’s face with Condemnation’s flat edge.

Harruq laughed, feeling adrenaline coursing through him. It felt good, engaged in honest combat with new opponents, though he was beginning to miss Haern. Strong as his opponents were, they relied entirely on that strength. He chuckled, realizing he probably felt like Haern in their early days after he and Aurelia had joined the Eschaton.

“I hear we have a true fighter in our midst,” shouted an angel above the rest. The crowd split, revealing Judarius and his enormous mace. He hefted it onto his shoulder and bowed with his free arm held against his chest. “Care for a duel, half-orc?”

“Been wanting some fun,” Harruq said, twirling his swords. “So let’s go.”

“Give it to him, Har!” Tarlak shouted from outside the ring of angels, having arrived with the crowd. “Just remember, it’s not your life on the line, just your pride. Oh, and your woman!”

Harruq shook his head as he tensed, already deciding who his next opponent would be. Judarius did not attack, instead watching and waiting for the half-orc to make a move.

“Patient, are we?” Harruq asked as the two circled.

“You excel in your reactions,” Judarius said. “You’re faster than you look, and you use that. But what if someone matches you in speed?”

The angel swung, the mace nothing but a blur. Harruq braced his legs and slammed both swords in the way, gasping for air as they connected. It felt like Judarius had swung a boulder at him. Grass tore as his feet slid across the ground. Before he could react the mace was coming in for a second hit. Harruq leaped back, not dumb enough to try another block, but Judarius was ready, lunging in with his elbow leading. Harruq ducked, slashed with Salvation to buy some separation, and then thrust both blades. Judarius’s mace twirled in his hands, batting them away.

Again their weapons crashed into each other, strength versus strength. Harruq grimaced, just barely able to hold back the enormous mace.

“You can’t out-react,” Judarius said. “Your best hope is a stalemate, but I am the stronger. You have no hope of winning.”

“Forgot one thing,” Harruq said as he pushed away the mace and slammed his swords together. “I can get really, really pissed.”

Harruq lunged, roaring like a wild animal released from a cage. Judarius parried the first couple strikes, but Harruq kept coming, his hands a blur. He pressed and pressed, unafraid of the giant mace, until he was close enough to drop Salvation and slam his fist into Judarius’s face. As the angel staggered, Harruq kicked out his legs, blocked a desperate swing with the mace, and then descended upon him, his knees on his throat and Condemnation stabbing into his arm.

This time there were no cheers or clapping. The angels stood stunned, their greatest fighter knocked low by a mere mortal. Harruq stood, sheathed Condemnation, and then offered a hand.

“We’re good at adapting,” Harruq said. “You need to remember that.”

Judarius accepted the hand, but his face was a somber glare as he brushed the dirt and grass from his armor. Blood trickled from his nose.

“I have much to practice, and much to learn,” Judarius said. “That should never happen again.”

He pushed his way through the angels, but before he could leave Ahaesarus was there, blocking his way.

“If we underestimate them, it is always our own failure,” Ahaesarus said. Judarius glanced back at Harruq, shook his head, and then continued on without saying a word.

“I’m sorry,” Harruq said as Ahaesarus approached and the rest of the angels dispersed. “Didn’t mean to upset him.”

“Just as we need to learn of you, you need to learn of us,” Ahaesarus said. “We are not perfect. We have pride and anger and doubt like we did when we served Ashhur on Dezrel. Judarius needed a bit of humbling.”

Ahaesarus led him back to Aurelia and Tarlak, who sat waiting by the fire.

“Now that was great,” Tarlak said, a giant grin on his face. “You did us human types proud.”

“We’re but soldiers made for battle,” Ahaesarus said. “So forgive us if your creature comforts are lacking, and the food poor. It doesn’t appear we will catch the demons. If we cannot gain ground, we will slow our pace and link up with Antonil’s army.”

“It seems that will be the case,” Tarlak said. “Where’d the paladins run off to, by the way?”

Ahaesarus chuckled. “They are discussing what you would refer to as theology with Azariah. I would stay away if I were you.”

“Not much for the particulars?” Tarlak asked. Instead Ahaesarus shook his head and patted his sword.

“Ashhur has given me people to protect and a sword to protect them with,” the angel said. “For me, that is enough.”

20

Q urrah hurried throughout the camp, doing his best to find comforts that weren’t there. Pillows, blankets, even torn cloaks would do. He looked wearied and feverish, his skin pale and his shoulders stooped.

“She still has weeks before she will be give birth,” Velixar said as he watched Qurrah search through their supplies. “There is no need to panic.”

“The months have been hard on her,” Qurrah said, shaking his head. “Traveling night and day, hanging from the arms of demons, all because we cannot rest, cannot slow.”

“She is a strong woman. And Veldaren is not far. Just a few more days, Qurrah, she can last that long.”

“No!” Qurrah shouted. He turned and gestured to the surrounding forest, the trees blooming with orange flowers and thick, wide leaves. “Here. We stay here.”

The man in black crossed his arms. His shifting face narrowed in the center, as if his entire being were focused where he glared.

“You will be vulnerable,” said Velixar. “We have not made it this far for you to be ambushed now.”

“Harruq’s pets are miles away,” Qurrah said. “And it doesn’t matter. Months left or not, our child is coming soon. Tess knows it, and I trust her. Now please, out of my way.”

Velixar stepped aside. As Qurrah hurried past, Velixar pulled his hood low and looked away.

“I will be near,” he said. “There is an old altar to Karak a mile north, following the creek upstream. I will pray for you both.”

“Thank you,” Qurrah said, his entire body sagging as if hundreds of men clung to his back and limbs. “But we won’t need it.”

The demon army took flight as the sun set, leaving Qurrah alone in the sudden silence. To him, it was a great relief. Solitude was something he craved, and for months, solitude was the one thing he had been denied during their flight across Dezrel. But now they were alone, just he and Tessanna.

“Finally,” Qurrah whispered.

Deeper into the forest the trees closed together, as if their trunks and roots intertwined, making them one being. Tessanna lay against one such tree with two trunks, a few thin blankets underneath her swollen form. Sweat poured down her face.

“Not ready,” Tessanna said as she saw his approach.

“You will do fine,” Qurrah said, laying a cloak across her body as she shivered in the cool night air.

“Not me,” she said, then winced as an enormous cramp filled her abdomen. She closed her eyes and clawed the grass. Qurrah watched, a horrible sickness in his chest. His beloved was suffering, and there was nothing he could do to ease the pain. Nothing he could do to quicken the experience. He could only remain at her side, impotent, worthless.

No, he thought as Tessanna grabbed his hand and held on as if her whole body were falling from him. He wasn’t worthless. He was needed, desperately so. He put both his hands around hers, and when her pain subsided he allowed himself to smile.

“You will be a good mother,” he said to her.

“And you’ll be a horrible father,” she said, aware enough in her exhaustion to crack a smile. “Get me something to bite. This is only going to get worse.”

He found her a stick, used his dagger to carve off the crumbly outer layer, and then handed it to her. She bit down on the center, breathed deep, and then moaned as another wave of pain flooded through her abdomen. Qurrah held her hand, stroked her face, and kept silent, wishing again and again he could ease her pain.

An hour passed. He checked her only once, and saw nothing resembling a baby. Her cramps worsened, and it seemed she clung to life by a single, vicious thread of pain and determination. Every wave she leaned forward, tears flowing from her eyes as she moaned and screamed and pushed. Every wave he thought she would die, her tiny frame breaking under the stress. But she was strong, so much stronger than he had ever given her credit for.

Another hour passed. He checked her, and saw what he thought was a head. He kissed her fingers and told her.

“I know,” Tessanna said between deep, labored breaths. “I can feel her when I push.”

“Her?” Qurrah asked, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.

“I know it’s a her,” she said, leaning back and trying to relax even as her lower back throbbed in agony. “I just know.”

The night deepened. Every few minutes her screams pierced the silence. Tessanna felt the baby’s shoulders push through. The pain was beyond immense. The pain was everything. Blood poured out of her. Qurrah knelt at her feet, a blanket in his hands. She had to be close, she had to be. Her body couldn’t take anymore. She felt herself tearing. The contractions worsened. She pushed and pushed.

“Get it out of me,” she sobbed, her dark hair matted to her face.

“One more,” Qurrah said, same as always. “Just one more.”

She gave him one more. She pushed, and Qurrah cried out as he saw the child’s head push through. Fluids rushed over his hands, but he didn’t care. He grabbed the little form and pulled.

“A girl,” Qurrah said as he lifted her to his chest. The forest turned silent but for Tessanna’s gasps of air. The silence turned cold.

“Qurrah?” Tessanna said, trying to sit up but unable to muster the strength. “Qurrah? Say something!”

The child wasn’t moving.

Qurrah used his dagger to cut the umbilical cord, then dropped it. He put his finger into the baby’s mouth, clearing out what he could see, but it didn’t matter. He held no life. He held a shell. He stroked the girl’s face with a trembling hand. Her eyes were closed. Her nose was scrunched against her face from the birth. Red splotches covered her slimy pink skin. But she was beautiful. And she was stillborn.

“Qurrah!” Tessanna cried amid a deep sob.

“You bastard,” Qurrah whispered, tears pouring down his cheeks. “How dare you? How dare you…”

“Give her to me,” Tessanna screamed. Qurrah wrapped the body in a cloak and handed it over. Tessanna clung the child to her chest, weeping. Qurrah stood, his whole body shaking, his heart swirling with too many emotions to understand. Above it all, above the pain and the betrayal, he felt anger.

“He promised us a life,” Qurrah said. “He promised.”

He gestured to their child.

“Is this the promise of Karak?”

“Don’t leave me,” Tessanna said between wracking sobs. “Please, don’t leave me.”

He knelt beside her, and into his pale, shriveled hands he took the baby’s small fingers. The pain inside him seemed unbearable. The sense of loss, beyond anything.

“What have I done to you, brother?” he dared ask. “Is this it?”

He stood. Tessanna lay there, blood pooled about her as if she were some sacrificial offering to a craven deity.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded.

“He promised,” Qurrah said, stumbling north. “I have to.”

The forest was red to him. Red with death. Red with anger. High above the stars were drops of blood, like that which covered his daughter, his divine curse. Everything he had done. Everything he had offered and lost. Cruel. Cruel and vicious and horrific. Someone had to pay. Someone had to suffer, as he suffered.

The trees suddenly cleared, and Velixar waited by a fire amid a circle of stones. He stood, and at the look in his disciple’s eyes he knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“What happened?” he asked.

Qurrah did not answer. Instead, he hurled a bolt of shadow at Velixar’s chest. Stunned, Velixar staggered back as the magic crushed his bones and tore into his rotting flesh. The second bolt, however, he did block, batting it aside with his hand as his glowing eyes glared in the darkness.

“How dare you strike at me?” Velixar said. “Tell me what happened!”

“You are a liar!” Qurrah shouted. Purple flame poured from his fingers. Velixar crossed his arms and summoned a shield. The fire rolled across it, unable to penetrate. Qurrah’s whip lashed out next, cracking across the shield with loud sparks of flame. Velixar released his protection, leaped away from the whip, and then clapped his hands. Shadows shot like arrows from the sky, each one piercing Qurrah’s flesh and dissolving into mist that flooded his body with pain. Qurrah ignored it with ease. He had felt more pain that he had ever thought imaginable. A few stinging darts meant nothing.

He braced his wrists together and stretched his fingers. A solid beam of magic shot forth, sparkling with stars and planets of a lost galaxy. Velixar crossed his arms and raised them high. A wall of stone tore from the ground. The beam shattered it like glass. Velixar rolled, barely dodging the beam, which continued on through several trees, exploding their trunks and burning their leaves. The trees collapsed, and from their branches the grass set fire. Smoke billowed as the two glared, their forms demonic in the flickering red and yellow light.

“When have I lied?” Velixar asked as he staggered to his feet. “I promised you Tessanna would conceive, and she did!”

“The child was dead!” Qurrah shouted back. “You promised us a lie. A cruel joke. Everything you are, everything you claim, is a lie or a joke.”

“I am the only truth this world has ever known,” Velixar roared. He grabbed a clump of dirt and threw it. The dirt melted into a black goop that burst into flame, slamming into Qurrah’s chest with the force of a bull. Qurrah collapsed to the ground, gasping for air and rolling along the grass to put out the fire.

“What truth do you know?” Velixar asked. “Tell me, oh wise one.”

“Truth?” Qurrah gasped on his hands and knees. “I know one. My brother loved me, and I hurt him more than I ever knew.”

“Your brother,” Velixar said, throwing his hands up in disgust. “He was weak, a fool. He turned his back on the both of us, Qurrah, you once knew that as well as I!”

Qurrah stood and raised his hands high. Spells slipped through his lips. All around the fire grew in strength, fully surrounding them. It was as if they were in their own personal piece of the Abyss, reserved just for them. From within the fire, bones tore up from the ground, the remains of many sacrificed hundreds of years ago in the name of Karak. Gripping them in his mind, he flung them like spears at Velixar.

Karak’s prophet made a noise akin to a growl as the bones smacked into his face and chest. He pointed at Qurrah, his patience ended.

“ Hemorrhage, ” said Velixar.

Qurrah gasped as a large portion of his chest exploded in a shower of blood. He collapsed to his knees, his arms clutched tight against his body. He tried to cast a spell, but his head was dizzy, his vision blurred through tears and exhaustion.

“Kill me,” Qurrah said as Velixar approached. “Kill me, and let the weight of the portal crush you as well. I am too damn tired for this.”

Velixar paused, fighting for words.

“I promised you a child,” he finally said. “But even I do not hold the gift of life. If it was denied to you, then it was denied to you by Celestia, or Ashhur, not by me.”

Qurrah wiped tears from his eyes, smearing blood across his face.

“I will never trust a word you say,” Qurrah said, glaring through his blurred vision.

Velixar shook his head as he stood.

“Such a shame,” he said. “Suffer however you wish. This world is almost ended. I have no time for your doubt and self-pity.”

He turned and walked through the fire, and he was not burned. Qurrah got to one knee, took a deep breath, and stood. His heart pounded in his ears. He wasn’t sure which way was south. He closed his eyes, and in his heart he begged Tessanna to help him. When he looked again, the fire had parted before him. He hurried through, still clutching his chest. He ran past trees when he saw them, and stumbled off of them when he didn’t. His mind was desperate. He had to get to her. He had to hurry.

When he found her she still held their child in her arms. She was crying.

“You left me,” she cried when he returned. “How could you leave me?”

He stumbled to her side, buried his face in her neck, and held on for dear life.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling consciousness fading fast. “Please, Tess, I’m so sorry.”

And then he saw nothing, heard nothing, but in his dreams, he still felt the pain. It seemed no matter what, he would never escape it.

He dreamt of their child, never even given a name.

Q urrah awoke covered with a cold sweat. His chest felt like ants crawled just underneath his flesh, biting and digging. It was still dark, the stars hidden by branches.

“It hurts to move,” he heard Tessanna say to him. He shifted closer to her on the dirt, resting his head against her chest.

“We’ll be all right,” he told her.

“She needs to be buried,” Tessanna said.

At this Qurrah turned over and looked at his lover. The dead child was still in her arms, completely wrapped in the torn cloak. It was a tiny, pitiful package.

“I’ll do it,” Qurrah said. He got on one knee, then clutched the dirt as a wave of dizziness assaulted him. He fought it away. So what if he’d lost a lot of blood. He’d lost more before, and he had no time for weakness. He stood, took a few steps away from the tree, and saw a patch of soft earth.

“I have nothing to dig with,” he said, glancing back to his lover.

“Your hands,” she said.

He fell to his knees and started digging. Rocks tore at his soft skin, and his fingernails cracked as they dug into the cold ground. He ignored the pain. At one point a jagged edge of a stone cut into his finger, and as his blood dripped into the grave he found it oddly fitting. At last he stood, curled his arms against his chest, and nodded to the dead child.

“Give her to me,” he said.

She offered the bundled cloak, and he took it, sickness growing in his stomach as he felt how little it weighed. Tears ran down his face, along the scars he had cut, determined reminders at how he had sworn to cry no more for his brother, to weep no more for his guilt and his loss. They seemed pathetic now, a ridiculous gesture. He might as well have stabbed himself in the heart.

Into the ground went the bundle. He returned the dirt to its hole, and all the while his gut groaned with anger and hurt.

“A fire,” Tessanna said when he finished. “Build a fire atop her grave.”

He had not the heart to argue or question her desire. He gathered a few branches and piled them together. A simple spell, and sparks flew from his fingers, setting the wood aflame. A shallow grave with a fire for a tombstone. Again, fitting.

“We have to name her,” he said as he watched the fire burn. Tessanna sat up, dragging her lower body as if she were paralyzed. She scooted back so she could lean against the tree, and as her head pressed against the bark she let her eyes linger on the fire.

“Teralyn,” Tessanna said, closing her eyes. “My mother's name. Let her die as Teralyn.”

“She can’t die,” Qurrah said, an ugly frown on his face. “She never lived.”

“She lived inside me!” Tessanna shouted, startling him. “Don’t you dare say that!”

He felt foolish and vile. “I’m sorry,” he said. He knelt beside the fire and spread his arms as if he were an offering. The heat washed over him. Silence followed for several long minutes. Any time the fire flickered or weakened Qurrah tossed another branch onto it and showered it with sparks. He had every intention on having it burn throughout the night. He felt he could live forever without sleep. His dreams, he didn’t remember them, but he remembered the horror chasing him when he awoke.

“What do we do now?” Tessanna asked, breaking the oppressive silence.

“Velixar lied to us,” Qurrah said.

“Do we turn against him?” she asked. She bit down on one of her nails and chewed. “He’s powerful. Not as much as he used to be, but neither are you. And if he dies, you die.”

“I can release my grip on the portal,” Qurrah said. “It will crush him if he tries to keep it open.”

“Then we won’t be able to escape,” she said. “We’ll be stuck here, forever, with mommy watching me and your brother hating you. Everyone will want us dead, Qurrah, everyone!”

She started sobbing.

“Then what do we do?” Qurrah asked. “Continue on with Velixar? Keep serving Karak? He has given us nothing and taken everything. I cannot live this life anymore. I would rather die.”

“Live for me,” Tessanna said. “Just for me. Can’t I be enough?”

He sat down beside her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and leaned against the tree.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if anything will ever be enough.”

“For once, trust me,” she said, burying her head in his chest to wipe away her tears. He kissed the top of her head and wondered if he could.

V elixar arrived while the two still slept. He watched them, clinging desperately to each other even in their dreams. Nearby he saw a dying fire, and he sensed the death that lingered about it.

“Never before have I asked for a miracle,” Velixar prayed. “But Celestia’s power is dwindling. Perhaps there is time.”

He scattered the embers with his hand, then dug into the dirt. He glanced at the two lovers, making sure they still slept. He did not want to wake them. If there was anything that could damage them further, it was false hope. Faster and faster he dug, casting aside the earth until he found the bundled cloak. Closing his eyes, he slipped his hand within its folds until he felt cold flesh.

“Give her life,” Velixar prayed. “Whatever life you can give.”

He felt the power flow out of him, into the dead child he touched. The voice of Karak rang in his ears, strong and clear.

I do not mean him to suffer, Velixar heard. But this world is broken and dying, and there is naught I can do to stop it. But I will. One day, my faithful servant, we will end all their suffering.

The power ceased. He felt the child move. Eyes still closed, his magic wandered, and letting out a sigh he felt his spirit drop. The child moved, yes, but it was undead, just like any other corpse he had drawn from its grave. He let go of the child and stood.

“They could never love you,” he said to the squirming bundle. “Such a shame.”

He waved his hand, bathing it in fire. As the grave was consumed, he heard a noise from behind, like a soft cry of a bird. He glanced back to see Tessanna watching him, her mouth open, her eyes locked wide. There was no trace of sanity in them.

“Get out of here,” she said. “I will kill you if I see you again. You’re sick, and you’ve poisoned us all.”

“I only meant to help,” Velixar said.

“Fuck your intent,” she said. “Leave. Now.”

Qurrah stirred, and as he did, Velixar shook his head and left. The half-orc opened his eyes, saw the fire, then the chaos in his lover’s eyes.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“He was here,” she said. “Now he’s gone. And I’m glad.”

Qurrah pulled his arms free of her and stood. Pangs of hunger rumbled through him, but the thought of food nearly made him vomit. He staggered over to a nearby tree and leaned his arms against it, and with slow, labored breaths stared at the ground until his nausea passed.

“We’ll go to Veldaren,” he said. “We’ll go and demand our freedom, just as we were promised.”

“And if we’re not given it?” Tessanna asked.

“They’ll free me or they’ll kill me,” Qurrah said. “I won’t suffer any other option.”

Tessanna frowned but nodded.

“Help me to the creek,” she said. “I stink of sweat and blood.”

He more carried her than helped her walk. She winced when he put her into the water, but it felt good. It felt cleansing.

“Qurrah?” she asked as she submersed all but her head. “Is death really preferable over a life here with me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, but he did not meet her eyes when he said it. She saw this and started crying. She dipped her head under the water to hide her tears.

It was another day before she was strong enough to travel. The time passed as if both were within dreams. The demons were gone. The armies were gone. There were only the sounds of the forest and the animals within. Deep in his heart, Qurrah longed for the days when it was just him and Tess alone in a small cabin in the heart of the king’s forest.

“What happened to those days?” he asked aloud as he dabbed his hand into the stream.

“What days?” Tessanna asked.

He only shook his head.

They traveled southeast, knowing when they exited the forest Veldaren would not be far. Slowly Qurrah realized where they were, and a strange thought came to him.

“The Eschaton tower,” he said as they walked hand in hand. “It should be near.”

“It is,” Tessanna said, her voice a complete drone. She had fallen into her apathetic self, and to Qurrah’s nagging worry, she seemed unable to come out of it. “We’re also near where we first made love. Aullienna died in this forest, and now Teralyn. So much has happened here. Do you remember the assassins we killed, the ones after Aurelia?”

“You were frightening and beautiful,” Qurrah said.

“I often am.”

They altered their path, and for the next few hours walked in silence. They were nearing the tower, a place that had once been their home. They had been back only once since Aullienna’s death, right before Velixar’s army had assaulted Veldaren and torn its walls asunder. It seemed a lifetime had passed, but as they stepped out of the forest the tower loomed before them, same as it had always been.

“Why are we here?” Qurrah asked as he stopped and looked at the tower, nostalgia tugging at his heart.

“Because we miss it,” she said. “Because we were happy here.”

“Happy,” Qurrah said, and he chuckled as if the mere notion were insane. “I’ve almost forgotten the feeling.”

“You knew it,” Tessanna said, grabbing her lover’s hand and holding it against her abdomen. “When you felt Teralyn move inside me. Is it so easy to forget?”

He kissed her cheek, again feeling vile and worthless.

“You’re right,” he said. “But not easy. Just far too hard.”

The doors were unlocked, and he opened them with dread lurking in the back of his head.

No good will come of this, he thought. Nothing.

He walked inside anyway, Tessanna holding his hand. Dust covered the couches and floors, the air thick and dry. Any other time thieves might have ransacked the place, but what thieves remained in the world? Demons poured into the conquered city mere miles away, all life sworn to them or extinguished.

They climbed the stairs. The dream-feeling grew stronger. They both knew where they were going. They both knew why they were there. Qurrah’s dread grew. Could he face what he looked for? Could he admit to the wound he had pretended healed years ago? At the top of the stairs there was a door, and behind the door, his brother’s old room. He pushed it open.

Aurelia had once cast illusions all over the place, carpeting the floor with grass and turning the walls to sky. The illusions had faded, so that the room appeared barren. The ground was a dull stone. The walls were gray. He walked past the bed to the small attached room. He felt Tessanna’s grip on his hand turn to iron. Aullienna’s room. The crib was gone. The whole room, empty. Qurrah stepped inside and fell to his knees. He remembered when he had first seen her. He had been angry at his brother for giving her an elvish name. So angry, he had refused to even touch the swaddled infant. He could hardly understand that anger now. The orcish blood flowing through him felt like a curse, one that haunted his life and tormented him with death and anguish.

“How did you ever forgive me?” he asked as Tessanna wrapped her arms around his neck. “I never understood, and I never let myself feel it. I always blamed him, I always…”

“Hush,” Tessanna said, kissing his neck. “Just hush. I forgave you because I had to if I still wanted to love you.”

“Could he ever forgive me?” Qurrah asked, staring at his hands as if they were coated with blood.

Tessanna leaned back. She wasn’t sure what she believed, what she wanted to believe, and what she simply feared. She had many answers, but she chose the one that scared her least.

“No,” she said. “He could never forgive you.”

The answer seemed to crush Qurrah’s body, but he nodded in agreement.

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t deserve it. But he deserves better. For all his faults, he stayed true to me. I was wrong, Tess. He never abandoned me. I abandoned him. And I will make it right.”

Qurrah stood, and he clutched her hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I must find my brother,” he said. “Before it is too late.”

“You’re scaring me,” Tessanna said, at last a bit of emotion creeping into her voice.

“Because I am scared,” he said. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“Where will we find him?” she asked. “ How will you find him?”

“Their army gives chase,” Qurrah said. “They will lay siege to Veldaren in a desperate attempt to close the portal. My brother will be with them.”

She kissed his lips and then held onto him for dear life.

“I won’t leave you,” she said. “Long as you never make me, I’ll never leave you.”

Qurrah kissed her back but stayed silent. That silence was an arrow into her, but like all her pain, she hid it behind her masks, her apathy.

They slept at the top of the tower that night, huddled, broken, and so very close to dead.

21

T he leaders of both angel and human armies met within the giant tent, mere days from Veldaren. They had encountered little resistance, spotting only the occasional scout tracking their progress.

“Time is on their side,” Azariah said as he paced the area. “More and more of Thulos’ soldiers pour into our world with every passing moment.”

“How do we close it?” Antonil asked, sitting between Sergan and Tarlak. “Is it something we can destroy? Is it even physical?”

“Two ways,” Azariah said. “If I can make it to the portal, I believe I can close it with a spell. The only other way is to kill those that are using their strength to keep it open.”

“Velixar,” Harruq said. “He is certainly one.”

“Your brother, too,” Tarlak said.

“Killing just one of them should be enough,” Azariah said. “If it is just the two, the strain must be enormous. The other will break if he tries holding it open on his own.”

“What about the castle?” Judarius said. “We have both ground and air to assault. If we can split their forces, the advantage will be ours.”

Antonil motioned to a drawing in the dirt that represented the castle and its walls.

“Karak’s forces destroyed both gates before we fled, and let’s not forget the third door Harruq made for us to escape through.”

“What, you want me to pay for repairs?” Harruq asked with a grin.

“The demons will have rebuilt the defenses by now,” Ahaesarus said, his arms crossed and his right hand tapping the hilt of his sword. “The walls are no difficulty for us, but Antonil’s troops need to enter, and quickly.”

“Then fly us over,” Lathaar said, the first time he had spoken during the meeting. “Drop us behind the gates. We’ll open them and let the rest of the troops through while you distract the demons in the air.”

“The strategy is sound,” Judarius said, nodding in appreciation to the paladin. “If we drop troops at both gates, your greatest fighters and casters, then we are certain to open one of them.”

“I can make sure it opens,” Mira said, nestled against Lathaar’s side as if she were hiding. “They won’t be able to stop me.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Tarlak.

“Your magic is strong,” Ahaesarus said to her. “They will try to kill you first. Are you prepared for such pressure?”

The girl said nothing, only smiled and nodded.

“So be it,” Ahaesarus. “Antonil, you will lead your troops outside the walls and wait for an opening. I will lead my angels in an aerial assault on the castle. Judarius, you will be in charge of dropping soldiers within the gates.”

“I’ll arrange the groups,” Tarlak said. “Just get us through, and we’ll bust you some holes to march on in.”

“Ashhur be with all of you,” Ahaesarus said, disbanding the meeting. “Stay sharp. The battle will be upon us soon.”

“So what are the groups?” Harruq asked once they were outside the tent.

“Well, I figured the paladins would work well together,” Tarlak said. “And I think Mira’s rather attached to one of them, so she goes with.”

“You’re too kind,” Lathaar said.

“I personally appreciate having a goddess on our side,” Jerico said.

“That leaves us Eschaton for the other,” Tarlak said. “Me and Aurry should handle the demons no problem, and I think even you can handle a simple task like opening a gate.”

“That’s pushing it a little,” Aurelia said. Tarlak laughed at Harruq’s frown.

“Aye, but we’ll just have to take the risk.”

“Too funny,” Harruq grumbled.

“I’ll try to do well,” Mira said. “I don’t want to disappoint you all.”

“Mira, my beautiful girl,” Tarlak said, bowing to her. “I find that nearly impossible to believe that possible.”

“So eloquent,” Aurelia said with a snicker.

They scattered about the camp, but before Tarlak could leave, Harruq tapped his shoulder and motioned for him to stay.

“Can you give me a moment, babe?” he asked Aurelia. The elf shrugged.

“If you need it,” she said. She kissed his cheek and joined Mira as she headed for the nearby stream for a swim.

“What’s so important?” Tarlak asked.

“It’s about my brother,” said Harruq.

“Isn’t it always?” Tarlak said, rolling his eyes.

“You and Aurelia will handle the gate fine,” Harruq insisted. “I need dropped further into the city. I need to find Qurrah.”

“It’ll be dangerous letting you run off on your own,” Tarlak said. “And I doubt he’ll be alone. That Tess girl is always at his side.” He shifted his hat, remembering her displays of power, like some dark angel with ethereal wings. He and Aurelia had assaulted her with everything they had, only to be brushed away like gnats.

“I’ll be fine,” Harruq insisted.

“If she’s with him, you’ll be dead,” Tarlak said.

Harruq grabbed Tarlak’s shoulders.

“A risk I’m willing to take,” he said, tilting his head down so they could stare eye to eye. “I can end all of this. You heard what Azariah said. If either he or Velixar goes, then the portal’s finished.”

Tarlak sighed. He glanced toward the stream and chewed on his lower lip.

“Your wife will kill me if she finds out,” he said.

“Another risk I’m willing to take,” Harruq said, grinning.

“I’ll talk to Judarius,” Tarlak said. “But Ashhur help you when you see your wife afterwards.”

Harruq tried to laugh it off, but he was right. He wasn’t frightened by the prospect of facing his brother alone. He was, however, terrified of what Aurelia was going to do to him if he survived.

“Perhaps it’ll be best if we kill each other at the same time,” Harruq said, nodding.

“Good luck with that,” Tarlak said. “Let me know how it goes.”

O n the other side of Dezrel, Haern ran through the streets, his sabers drawn and coated with blood. Cloaked figures ran on the rooftops to either side of him. Not far behind, Deathmask chased, bits of shadows sparking from his hands.

“Cut him off,” Haern shouted. The two figures above him vanished, veering off to their respective sides. Further down the street ran a paladin of Karak, barreling his way through anyone foolish enough to be in his way. When a man didn’t move, the paladin gutted him with his sword and shoved him aside as if he were nothing but a nuisance. Haern shook his head and ran faster.

They reached a crossroads. Haern expected him to cut to either side, where one of the twins waited, but instead he kept going, heading straight for the walls to the city.

So be it, Haern thought. No one could outrun him. He leaped and fell with sabers curled, like a bird descending on its prey. The paladin did not hear his silent approach. Sabers crashed through the creases of his armor, deep into the arteries of his neck. The paladin garbled a last cry and then collapsed, Haern’s knees on his back. The assassin twisted his sabers, still furious at the dead man.

“They’re like roaches,” Deathmask said between gasps as he caught up. “They’re slipping in and out like our walls are nothing.”

“How many guards did he kill?” Haern asked as he shook his head. “Eight? Nine?”

“Seven,” Deathmask said. “The rest were innocents.”

“Fighting from the east!” Mier shouted as he poked his head over the rooftops.

“Fighting from the west!” Nien shouted as well, giving his twin a curious look.

“Pressing all sides,” Haern said, stretching to keep his muscles loose.

The ground rumbled, and high above the red lion roared in the sky.

“This could be it,” Deathmask. “We’re starved, we’re pressed, and they’ve slowly killed off most of our troops.”

“So be it,” Hearn said. “We’ll kill whoever enters the city. Take the east. I’ve got the west.”

He leaped to the rooftops, landing beside Nien.

“Lead on,” he said to the twin, who nodded.

“Follow me,” Nien said.

As the two ran off, Veliana charged down the street, her daggers drawn.

“They’re attacking the walls!” she shouted. “All sides. We’re not ready!”

“Go!” Deathmask shouted to Mier. “Kill whoever sneaks in.”

Deathmask scattered ashes about his face, then nodded to Veliana.

“Let’s go,” he said. “If I’m to die, I’m taking as many as I can with me.”

H aern followed Nien until there was no reason to. Smoke and fire billowed near the walls ahead of them. He leaped to the street and continued running, whispering a desperate prayer to Ashhur as he did. Nien stayed on the rooftops, trying to analyze the carnage. Over a hundred undead marched through a tunnel dug underneath a collapsed home. Pieces of buildings were scattered everywhere, set aflame by a magical assault. Nien halted above a nearby home, and from its roof he let loose a barrage of daggers, each one shimmering purple. The daggers punctured bone and rotted flesh, and one by one he downed the undead warriors.

Haern crashed into their ranks, twirling and cutting through tendons, removing their ability to move and attack. More troublesome, though, were the tested that followed. They waved their skeletal hands in the air, shouting out Karak’s name in a fevered wail. Haern slipped back, fighting away the undead as Nien hurled his daggers.

“Get away!” Haern shouted as the undead surrounded the home. Priests of Karak climbed out of the tunnel, curses on their lips. Nien balanced as the undead tore at the sides of the house, ripping at its walls with their bony fingers. He tried to leap to a nearby house, but the priests’ curses gripped his muscles. All his strength left his body. He tumbled off the side, his legs refusing to cooperate.

“No!” Haern screamed, but he could not press forward, not with the tested clubbing at him with their hands. Unable to stand, Nien screamed as the undead tore him to pieces. High above, the lion roared.

Swearing revenge, Haern turned and ran. The vast bulk of Mordeina’s troops patrolled the two walls, their inner forces woefully unprepared for such an assault. He had to locate Deathmask and the others, and perhaps together they could counter the tunnels. Sheathing his swords, he leaped to the rooftops and searched for a similar pillar of smoke and fire. Sure enough, he found one far to the east. He jumped from roof to roof, approaching as fast as he could, but he knew it was too late. Even from his distance he could see the swarms of undead pouring into the city. Many turned north, back toward the main entrances. They were blocking in the soldiers on the walls, he realized, leaving the castle vulnerable.

“This is bad,” Haern said. “Very bad.”

He ran for the castle. If they were to make a last stand, it would be there. He caught a glimpse of the undead swarming the city. They did not beat on doors or try to climb through windows, and for that Haern was thankful. Whoever led the assault had no desire to exterminate them all.

When he reached the stairs before the castle doors he saw a collection of guards with weapons drawn, watching with looks of fear and unease.

“Well met, Watcher,” one said as he approached. “Good news would be much appreciated.”

Haern shook his head and joined them in assessing the walls. Several more fires burned in the city, more tunnels bypassing their main defenses. The soldiers on the walls fired arrows, but they could not stem the tide. Karak’s forces surrounded them on both sides, and they dared not climb down. They were trapped, and therefore useless.

“I wish I had some to offer,” Haern said, sighing. “But I’m a poor liar.”

Undead pooled into the main center street, the tested at their heels. Soldiers lined up at the top of the stairs as one of them shut and locked the castle doors from within.

“Die for our Queen!” one cried.

“For the Queen!” the others shouted in unison.

Haern just closed his eyes and sighed. He lurked behind the line, wishing he had Tarlak’s skill to cheer on soldiers, or the paladins' unwavering sense of faith. All he had were his sabers, his cloaks, and his skill. The first wave of undead neared, never making it up the stairs. Dieredon came crashing in from one of the alleys riding Sonowin, whose giant wings curled up against her sides. They trampled the undead before riding up the steps.

“Well met!” Dieredon shouted, raising his bladed bow. The soldiers cheered and saluted. The elf dismounted and slipped between them to speak with Haern.

“How is it?” Haern whispered.

“Dreadful,” Dieredon whispered back. “And I have yet to test Sonowin’s wings. I’m not sure she can save us.”

“Here comes more,” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing their attention down the steps.

“Fight until we die,” Haern said. “It’s what we’re good at.”

“Perhaps the fighting part,” Dieredon said, firing an arrow through the eye of a limping undead. “The dying I’m terrible at.”

D eathmask stood in the center of the street, Veliana at his back. Fire surrounded them in a protective wall, incinerating any that approached. Dark fire rolled outward, blasting away wave after wave of the dead. The tested tried leaping through the fire, but then Veliana was there, kicking and slicing into their flesh with her daggers. Bodies piled up around them, but they were but a single drop of a rain in a thunderstorm.

“We can’t stop them all,” Veliana shouted amid the din of songs and moans, all worshipping Karak.

“We’ve lost the twins,” Deathmask shouted back. “We’ll damn well try.”

With a thought the fire wall moved forward, and together they walked.

“If we can get the soldiers off the walls, we might have a chance,” Veliana said.

“That’s my hope,” Deathmask said, pointing. “We’ve got company.”

Priests of Karak marched toward them, their hands raised to the sky. Deathmask struck the first one dead with an arrow made of ash that dug into his flesh and burst his heart. He surrounded a second with fire, burning his flesh as he screamed. The other priests pointed their hands and sang their songs. Curse after curse fell upon the two, sapping their strength and clouding their minds. They both crumpled to their knees.

“Fight it,” Deathmask said through clenched teeth. Veliana did not respond, instead taking one of her daggers and stabbing it into her hand, hissing as the pain soared through her, filling her body with strength to fight away the curses. She stood, glared with her one eye, and leaped over the fire. Her body twirled in the air, avoiding blasts of shadow. She landed amid them, a blur of steel and blood. She tore through throats and faces, cutting and slicing between them. Just as quickly, she leaped back, landing in the center of Deathmask’s wall of fire. Seven priests lay dead or dying, their blood on her blades. Deathmask stood to his full height, feeling their curses slipping off him like broken chains.

“You’ll need more,” he said to the few that remained. They crossed their arms, summoning a magical shield. Deathmask laughed at it, then slammed his wrists together. A solid beam of dark magic burst from his hands, shattering their protective magics as if they were cloth. The beam continued, shredding two more priests before tearing off a sizable chunk of a home. He expected the rests of the priests to scatter, but instead they continued singing. Another joined them, the center of his eyes shining red. He bowed, a smile on his lips.

“I had hoped some would still fight,” this strange priest said to them. “Overcoming your valiance makes the victory earned.”

“Do you lead this army?” Deathmask asked. He snapped his fingers, sending the ash that covered his face swirling around his head. Through the flames of his wall, he was an intimidating sight.

“I do,” said the priest, not impressed. “My name is Melorak. Are you prepared to die?”

“Sure,” Deathmask said. “Let’s give it a try.”

He unleashed a second beam of magic, but this time it pooled around Melorak’s shield like water hitting a stone. The priest shook his head.

“Disappointing,” he said. A wave of his hand and the wall of fire died. Veliana lunged, her daggers leading, but Melorak opened his mouth. From within came a wail so loud and powerful it was a physical force, slamming her aside. Deathmask cast another spell, covering Melorak’s body with fire. The flames flickered and died without burning. Melorak locked his hands, and from the ground rose a tidal wave of shadow that rolled them along the street, flooding their nerves with pain. When the wave ended, they lay crumpled on the stone, barely able to move.

“What now?” Veliana asked as she struggled to stand.

“Self-preservation,” Deathmask said. He grabbed her hand and then reached into his pocket. As a ball of yellow fire flew from Melorak’s chest Deathmask enacted his spell. The two vanished in a puff of shadow right before the attack hit. Melorak laughed, only energized by the fight. He wanted more. He looked to the castle, where many still fought against his forces.

“Go back to the walls,” he said to the priests at his side. “Shout your praises to Karak. I will handle those at the castle.”

“As you wish,” the priests said in unison.

“Praise be to Karak,” Melorak said as he approached the castle. “Praise be.”

“B lock either side!” Dieredon shouted to the soldiers. “Funnel them to me!”

The soldiers formed two lines at the top with a gap in the center. Further back in the gap Dieredon stood, his bow drawn. He fired arrows three at a time from a quiver that never ran empty. Wave after wave of undead dropped, and those that made it to the top were either chopped down or pushed into Dieredon’s line of fire. Haern weaved between the sides, crushing any undead that looked like they might score a kill. They were a mere force of twenty, but over two hundred lay defeated on their steps, the bodies increasing the difficulty of the climb for the rest.

The fight raged on, and another hundred fell. The undead surrounding the walls drifted further into the city, each one headed straight for the castle.

“Dark paladins,” Haern shouted as seven raised their swords and charged in unison.

“I see them,” Dieredon said. He drew only a single arrow, hesitated, and then released. The arrow slipped past his target’s sword and into his throat. He fired another. The dark paladins ducked, crossing their arms as they climbed, but it didn’t matter. Dieredon’s aim was true, this time digging into the flesh just underneath the arm. Another pierced through the eyehole of a helmet. Haern swore as they split to either side, outside Dieredon’s line of fire. Blades wreathed in dark fire, they crashed into the line of guards.

Dieredon resumed firing at the undead climbing the steps, knowing he had to trust Haern and the others. If he paused to fight, they would all be buried. Behind him, Sonowin neighed, and he could hear her nervousness.

“Easy, girl,” he told her, drawing three more arrows. “No matter what, you’ll be fine.”

Haern squared off with one of the paladins, wielding a sword in either hand. It felt like fighting a slower, weaker Harruq, and as such Haern knew exactly how to react to every slash and every thrust. He twisted and dodged, blocking only when he must. It didn’t take long before the paladin grew frustrated and made a mistake. Haern made him pay for it, burying his sabers deep into his chest.

Haern rolled to one side, behind another paladin unaware of his presence. His sabers slipped around his neck and cut. He glanced about, and swore at what he saw. Most of the guards lay dead, and still two more paladins remained. One died as he chopped down a soldier, Dieredon pausing momentarily to bury an arrow in his throat. Haern leaped at the other, ignoring the stinging fire of his sword to get close so his cuts and weaves could not be matched by the man in his bulky plate mail. The paladin shouted the name of Karak, hoping for strength. Instead Haern rammed his saber down his throat and twisted. He kicked the body down the stairs and glanced at Dieredon. His look said enough.

“I know,” Dieredon said, releasing another wave of arrows. “Until death?”

Only four guards remained, their armor soaked with blood and gore. As their enemies continued up the steps, seemingly endless in number, they lost their initial cheer.

“Hold faith,” Haern said to them. “For the Queen, and yourselves.”

Dieredon grabbed his bow with both hands. Spikes shot out from the ends, and rows of blades jutted out the front. He joined Haern’s side at the center, the guards on either side.

“Enough arrows,” the elf said. “Let’s build a wall of bodies.”

A combination of tested and undead ran up the steps, stumbling over the fallen. The second they neared, Dieredon was upon them, spinning and twirling his bladed bow like it was a part of his body, a mere extension of his will. The magic on it was strong, and it cut through bone with ease. Haern stayed at his side, parrying away any attack that neared Dieredon, and gutting any that tried to ignore the elf and run past. The guards, in awe, felt hope renewed in their hearts.

“For the Queen!” they shouted, joining in the fight, pushing and shoving their enemies toward the spinning death that was Dieredon.

“Priest!” one of them shouted. Dieredon paused, and sure enough he saw a man in black robes at the foot of the steps. When the priest looked up, his eyes shimmering red, the elf felt his hopes sink.

“Get into the castle,” the elf said to the others. “Now!”

The panic in his voice was enough for them to turn and bang on the castle doors.

“What is going on?” Haern demanded.

“Take Sonowin and go,” Dieredon said. “I don’t know if she can fly or not, but don’t let her die here.”

“I can help you!” Haern shouted.

“The city is lost!” Dieredon shouted back, shoving the assassin. “Now get her to safety!”

Melorak pulled his hood off his head and raised his arms. High in the sky, the lion roared, and as the roar shook the city, the priest glowed with red fire. It did not consume him. The rest of the army stayed behind, not daring to come between their master and his prey.

“We come as conquerors,” Melorak said. “Step aside or be burned.”

Haern leaped atop Sonowin and wrapped his arms around her neck. Dieredon patted her side and whispered something into her ear. The majestic horse snorted and shook her head.

“Go!” Dieredon shouted to Haern. Sonowin spread her wings and took a tentative step. Her wings fluttered, and as their strength remained firm, she leaped from the steps, her wings flapping. She soared into the air, Haern on her back. Dieredon watched, a smile on his face to see his beloved Sonowin able to fly again. The smile faded as his eyes shifted downward, to where Melorak stood shaking his head.

“You should have gone with him,” the priest said.

“One more chance,” Dieredon said as he held his bow with its blades out. “I end you, and this world is better for it.”

“I end you,” Melorak said, “and my world is better for it.”

Dieredon leaped, the blade on the end of his bow aimed straight for Melorak’s throat. He stopped halfway down the steps, slamming into a wall of air that rippled into visibility at his contact. As he fell, Melorak cast a spell, bathing the elf in fire. He screamed and rolled across the steps, but could not extinguish the flame. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver vial, then smashed it against his chest. Cool blue light bathed over him, banishing the fire and softening his burns.

“Pathetic,” Melorak said, the fire swarming around his body pooling into his palms. “I expected better.”

Dieredon drew an arrow and fired. The arrow punched through the fire and flesh, its tip sticking out the other side of Melorak’s hand. The priest screamed, his concentration broken. The fire fell like lava to the ground, melting the stone. Dieredon fired a second arrow, but it halted in the air as if gripped by an invisible fist.

“We’ve played this game before,” Melorak said between gasps of pain. A clenching of his fist and the arrow shattered. “I won, remember?”

“It’s a new game,” Dieredon said as he stood. “You’re bleeding.”

Another clenched fist and the arrow stuck in his hand shattered. Blood poured down his arm and dripped across the ground. Dieredon was closer now, and he twirled his bow as he stared down Melorak, watching, waiting.

Melorak hurled a bolt of shadow. Dieredon somersaulted over it, his feet landing on Melorak’s shoulders. He twisted, locking the priest’s neck in his grip and pulling him down. As he landed he spun, ramming a blade straight for Melorak’s head. The priest shifted just enough so that the blade struck the ground, just grazing his cheek. As the blood dripped, Melorak shoved the palm of his hand against Dieredon’s chest and let loose all his fury. Shadows and fire blasted into Dieredon, flinging him several feet back. Dieredon twisted his body so he landed on his feet, jamming his bow into the stone to halt his movement.

Neither said a word as they both struggled to breathe. The elf’s chest was mangled and burned, and his hair hung wild and drenched with sweat over his face. Melorak clutched his bleeding hand and glared, one eye shut from the blood that ran into it. Sonowin circled high above, and upon her back Haern watched. All around, priests and dark paladins gathered, not daring to interfere.

Melorak reached into his pocket and hurled a handful of bones, animating them with magic so they flew like bullets. Dieredon spun his bow and ducked. They punched into his body, leaving deep welts but causing no serious harm. Dieredon drew several arrows, firing them in rapid succession. Melorak caught them all with his mind, shaking his head as if disappointed. But Dieredon was not finished. He dropped his bow and charged, and before Melorak could shatter them, he grabbed an arrow from its position, mere inches from Melorak’s chest, and rammed it forward. Melorak gasped as the arrow punctured his robe, slipped between his ribs, and entered a lung.

In the sky above, the lion roared in fury.

Dieredon snapped off the shaft and then knocked him back with an elbow to the face. Melorak tumbled down the steps, his body rolling to the feet of the onlookers.

The elf retrieved his bow. His ears heard only gasps of shock and horror. He turned about, drew an arrow, and smirked at the servants of Karak.

“Next?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Melorak gasped. He sat on his knees, propping his weight up on one hand while the other clutched the arrow in his chest. “Karak damn it all, not yet.”

Fire swirled around his body, descending from the heavens like an infernal pillar. He closed his eyes and raised his arms to the sky, letting it cleanse, letting it purify him of his weaknesses, his frailty of flesh. His blood froze. Consumed, he grinned at Dieredon, his red eyes burning in a maniacal flame. His flesh was dead. His body was bone and fire. His hands, burnt of all muscle and skin, were nothing but long black extensions, charred bone given life by Karak’s power. They closed around the stub of wood in his chest and pulled out the arrow. He did not bleed.

“We’re not done yet,” Melorak said. An illusion fell over his face, hiding the skull, covering it with flesh and hair that constantly shifted and changed.

Dieredon grabbed his bow and tensed. Power swelled in Melorak’s hands, dark magic that yearned for release. Before it could, Sonowin flew low, and from her back Haern fell, his sabers ready.

“Take her and go!” Haern shouted as his sabers buried deep inside Melorak’s neck. He twisted and kicked, knocking Melorak to the ground. Sonowin banked, stretching her wings wide so she floated just above Dieredon. She neighed, and the elf glanced between the two, unable to decide.

“I said go!” Haern shouted as Melorak’s body suddenly burst into flame. Dieredon hooked his bow on his back and jumped. He flung his arms around Sonowin’s neck and held on as she flew away.

“You fool,” Melorak said as Haern stabbed his sabers again and again into Melorak’s neck and shoulders. The fire grew stronger, and he felt his hands blistering and his eyes watering. The cuts did nothing. It was as if he were assaulting an armored man with only weapons of straw. The priest turned and grabbed Haern’s wrists. His red eyes flared with life. The fire traveled higher, charring Haern’s arms and neck.

“I will torture you,” Melorak swore. “For years you will beg for death.”

Haern only chuckled as his chest jerked forward.

“Ashhur,” he said, his whole body going limp, “has me now.”

He fell into Melorak’s arms as if embracing him. Lodged deep in his back was a single arrow, its aim true, its tip lodged deep inside his heart.

Melorak shoved the body away and glared at the retreating horse in the sky.

“You are lucky to have such suicidal friends,” the priest said, then dismissed the troublesome elf. He had work to do.

“Come!” he shouted to his minions. “The castle is ours.”

He climbed the steps, blasting open the castle doors with a wave of his hand. As the wood and metal splintered and shrieked, he saw several guards with their weapons drawn, determined to protect their queen to the very end. He bathed them in shadow and fire, not slowing his approach. He walked between their bodies, down the red carpet, to the throne where Queen Annabelle sat waiting.

“What will you do to my people?” she asked, remaining seated.

“They will serve Karak, or they will die,” Melorak said.

“Then I pray many join me in death,” she said.

Melorak smirked.

“Such cowardice,” he said. “Die well, Queen.”

He pressed his palm against her face. Before he could cast his spell, she pulled a dagger from underneath the folds of her dress and stabbed it into his eye. Melorak shrieked and staggered back. Black liquid ran down his face. In his fury, he cast a spell, annihilating the entire throne in a great explosion of lightning. With his lone good eye, he stared at the queen’s corpse, his dead heart throbbing with hatred as he yanked out the dagger.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said as servants of Karak poured into the castle, searching for any remaining soldiers. “The city is ours.”

Far above Dieredon flew, watching the waves of undead filter through the streets. When he flew over the wall he saw the soldiers surrendering their weapons. Above him, the lion roared one last time before dissolving into smoke. The battle was over.

Karak had won.

22

H arruq flew in the arms of an angel, Aurelia and Tarlak at either side. Before them loomed Veldaren, the city a dark specter in the early morning. No fires lit the streets, and no torches marked the castle.

“They will be ready for us,” his angel shouted over the rushing wind. “I will do my best, but be prepared to drop at any time.”

“Will do!” Harruq shouted back.

It seemed the entire city was empty, but then the sky filled with crimson armor. Demons flew into the air, gathering in formations to counter the waves of angels that approached. Harruq’s group split in two, each one heading for a gate. If they were lucky they would be poorly guarded. Antonil’s troops marched after, awaiting signal from either gate that it was open.

Demons lined the walls, and as they neared hurled their spears. Harruq closed his eyes and winced, waiting for either he or his angel to be hit. Neither was. He opened his eyes again to watch the wall go whizzing underneath them. Tarlak and Aurelia veered toward the western gate. He had time to see only a confused look on Aurelia’s face before they were gone, dropped onto the streets amid countless demons.

Harruq sighed, praying for their safety as his angel dipped down, trying to avoid the battle erupting all around them. Ahaesarus and Judarius led the bulk of their forces above the city, and like at Mordeina they showered the ground with blood and corpses.

“Anywhere near the center of the city,” Harruq shouted. “I’ll find him from there.”

“We’ve been spotted,” his angel cried, glancing behind him. He beat his wings faster, but he carried a load, and the two demons that chased after were light and fast.

“Good luck,” the angel shouted, dipping down and letting go. Harruq tucked and rolled as he’d been taught, feeling like a child’s plaything as he bounced along. He emerged relatively unscathed and unnoticed, the two demons chasing after the angel instead of going for him.

“All right, Qurrah,” he said, looking about the empty street. “Where the Abyss are you?”

T hey waited at the shattered remnants of Veldaren’s fountain. It was the only place that made sense. Qurrah stared at the crumpled pieces of what had once been the image of a mighty king. He had met Tessanna at that fountain, mesmerized by her beauty, her strangeness, and her blood dripping from her wrist to the water. The main roads from both gates met there before turning north toward the castle. If his brother was to pass through the city, he was most likely to meet him there.

“What do you plan to do?” Tessanna asked. She leaned against the toppled stone horse the statue had ridden upon. She stared at her hands, unwilling to look her lover in the eye.

“I’m not sure,” Qurrah said. He scanned the sky, filled with demons and angels locked in combat. He heard sounds from both gates, and several trumpet calls.

“What happens when they arrive, Qurrah?” she asked. She glanced at him, only briefly. “What happens then?”

“I said I don’t know!” He made a movement with his hands, as if dismissing the whole notion. “And it doesn’t matter.”

“If Tarlak or his wife is with him, they will attack me,” Tessanna said. “Or my mirror, she will attack as well. What do you want me to do?”

“It won’t happen,” Qurrah said. This time he avoided her stare. “I want you to leave me be.”

Tessanna’s eyes widened. Her face locked into a ferocious stare, as if chiseled out of marble.

“You bastard,” she said. “You want to die, don’t you?”

“It’s more than that,” Qurrah said.

“No!” she shouted. “You lied. You’ve lied to me, again and again. You won’t seek forgiveness of your guilt, and you won’t rise above it either, so you crawl to your brother and beg for death?”

“Enough!” Qurrah shouted. He turned toward her, clutching his whip in his left hand. Tessanna felt her heart shiver at the way he looked at her. She wasn’t a lover to him, not then. She wasn’t even a friend.

“You coward,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “What will you tell him? That it was all my fault? I have loved you, in all my frailty. Everything I’ve asked of you, I did because I loved you.”

“Does it even matter?” Qurrah asked. “What good has come of it?”

She took a step back as if stabbed.

“We made a child,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “We gave each other warmth.”

“Then why?” asked Qurrah. “Why did you sleep with Jerico?”

She bit her lip and had no answer.

“You always ask why you’re not enough, why I don’t accept you as you are,” he continued. “But what of him? Am I not enough for you? What warmth can I be if you go fucking another man?”

She clutched her arms and looked around. She couldn’t stand the way he looked at her. She felt wretched and vile. It felt like the whole world would better for her own death, like a disease being cleansed from the flesh of Dezrel.

“I hate you,” she said. “So much, I hate you.”

She ran north, toward the castle. Qurrah watched her go, the wound in his heart bleeding all the more. Angels died in the sky. Blood fell like rain. Demons joined the angels. Several fell nearby, and he stared at their bodies with a creeping disinterest. He kept searching for troops, listening for armies, but none appeared. And then he saw his brother. He walked down the street, his swords drawn and held low at his sides. Qurrah felt a sudden flush of shame. An urge to flee gripped him, and he almost surrendered to it. Coward, Tessanna had called him. Deep down, he shoved his fear, his shame. He would not give in. Not now.

“You’ve lost,” Harruq said as he approached. He kept his swords ready, certain bloodshed was to follow.

“Perhaps,” Qurrah said, gesturing to the skies where demons and angels battled. “But what does it matter to you and I?”

“The whole world’s crumbling,” said Harruq. “I think that matters a bit to us.”

Harruq tensed as his brother stepped toward him. He braced for a spell, but something was wrong. Tears flowed down the scars on his brother’s face.

“My child,” he said. “My daughter. She died, brother. I held her in my arms, but no life, none.” He shook his head, and in his eyes, Harruq watched something break.

“Qurrah,” he started to say, but his brother cut him off.

“Let me speak,” Qurrah said. “I understand now. I cannot imagine your suffering. I’ve had only a taste, but the pain crushes me and robs my sleep of rest. My child never lived. Yours did, and I stole that from you.”

He fell to his knees and lowered his head. He could not meet his brother’s eyes, which like his, welled with tears.

“I have but one request,” Qurrah said, his hissing voice cracking. “Kill me now, and make it quick. I can bear this guilt no more. For all you have done, I owe you this.”

Harruq felt his swords shake in his hands. He stepped forward, and the times he had fought with his brother flashed before his eyes. He had refused to kill Qurrah before. Because of that, demons now flooded the lands. Because of his choice, many had died.

He raised his sword. He remembered Aullienna, the way she had smiled at him as he tickled her feet. He remembered the way she had floated face down in the water, her life gone. That pain seared him, and the grip on his sword tightened. He stared down at his brother, a broken shell of what he had once been. So many memories. So much pain. What had they done? What glory did they accomplish?

Harruq prepared to swing. He remembered his own kills. He remembered the children he had butchered. He remembered serving Velixar, his body bathed in unholy strength. He remembered the innocents in that small village, pleading as they fled. Women and children. What monsters had he and Qurrah been? Side by side, nothing but monsters.

And then he remembered that moment, broken and on his knees, he had cried out to Ashhur for a shred of mercy, for grace on his pathetic being, all so that he might see his daughter one more time.

“What are you waiting for?” Qurrah asked, his face still cast to the dirt. “Kill me.”

He remembered that first meeting with Qurrah after Aullienna's death. He’d searched for any hint of guilt or regret, and found none. But now, he looked down and saw a broken thing. While Harruq’s hurts had healed, Qurrah was an open wound, festering and bleeding as time only increased the rot. Sad. Miserable. A soul of regret and sadness crippled and abandoned of all hope.

Harruq shook his head. He understood. He finally understood. If he was to receive, he had to give. He sheathed his swords.

“Get up,” he said.

“What?” Qurrah asked, looking up from the ground.

“I said, get up.” Harruq reached down and offered his hand.

“No!” Qurrah shouted. Tears streamed down his face, and his mouth turned into an ugly scowl. “You will not deny me this!”

Harruq grabbed Qurrah’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. And then he hugged him. Qurrah stood there, his arms hanging limp at his side, his jaw quivering and his heart aching.

“How?” Qurrah asked. “How could you do this to me?”

“I forgive you,” Harruq said. He stepped back and made sure his brother could look him in the eye. “For everything you’ve done, I forgive you.”

The words were like a sword through his heart. All his anguish, all his guilt, it broke, as did he. He couldn’t bear it any more. All his anger, his hate. He’d destroyed how many lives? Part of him refused. He wasn’t worthy. He needed death. He deserved it. But he was so tired, so damn tired. His brother’s arms were around him. His smile was upon him. No malice. No lies. Karak had never loved him so. The drain of the portal, still releasing demons into the city, was something he could no longer endure. He let it go.

Qurrah took a breath, and it seemed an enormous weight left his shoulders. He stepped back, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. He felt naked before his brother, and foolish and confused.

“The others,” he said. “They will not forgive so easily.”

“Then shame on them,” Harruq said. A smile crept at the corners of his mouth. “You’re back, Qurrah.” He gestured to the battle raging above him. “Damn it, you’re back!”

“The portal,” Qurrah said. “It should be closed now, but it’s not. I still feel it lingering.”

“The castle, right?” Harruq asked.

“Behind the throne. If we hurry, I might be able to close it. Velixar should be with it, and if he isn’t crushed by the weight, he should still be rendered helpless.”

“Come on, then,” Harruq said, drawing his swords and grinning. “Follow me. Like old times, just better.”

“Indeed,” Qurrah said, wiping tears from his face. “Lead the way.”

T hey ran toward the castle, avoiding the bodies that fell from the sky. Far behind them the sound of magic and steel rang long and loud. Antonil and his men were pressing into the city, and with Mira, Aurelia, and Tarlak aiding them, they were more than a match for the demonic forces. Pressed by both air and ground, the demons would soon retreat to the portal.

Harruq stopped halfway up the stairs to the castle entrance, turning and waiting for his winded brother. He saw Qurrah glance up at him, his eyes widening. Harruq spun, flinging his swords into a desperate defense. Ulamn landed, swinging his gigantic two-handed sword. Their blades connected, and Harruq felt panic at the immense strength the demon wielded. He fell down the stairs, unable to withstand the blow.

Qurrah was already casting a spell before Ulamn could advance.

“Hemorrhage,” he shouted. Ulamn’s right arm jerked back, and blood poured from within the armor. The demon snarled and clutched his shoulder, holding his sword with his wounded arm. Red light shone around his hand. The flow of blood ceased as one of the rubies in his sword faded black.

“You are fools,” Ulamn said, gripping his sword with both hands and angling his body into a stance. “I coddled you, cur, and now you betray me?”

“Call me a fool all you want,” Qurrah said, his mind racing through the spells he knew. “You’re still going to die.”

Harruq lunged, but Ulamn batted his swords away as if they were toys. His wings spread wide, and with a single flap the force they generated knocked Harruq back down the stairs a second time, muttering and grumbling as he rolled.

“Your wings,” Qurrah said, his mind locked on a spell. “They trouble me.”

He crossed his arms, and red fire danced around his body as if he were a candle struggling to light. When he closed his eyes the fire roared, but not around him. The feathers on Ulamn’s wings burst into flame, surrounding him with thick black smoke. Ulamn pulled his wings tight and screamed in fury. He leaped down the stairs, his sword slamming deep into the ground where Harruq had been. The half-orc stepped back, not daring to meet the demon’s strength head on.

And then he could go no further, for he stood directly before Qurrah.

“We might need to run,” he said as Ulamn charged like an enraged bull.

“Stand,” Qurrah said, magic dancing on his fingers. “Fight him!”

Trusting his brother, Harruq met the demon’s attack, blocking it with both his swords. He expected his arms to spasm with pain, and his body to fly back as it had before, but instead Ulamn’s sword retreated. Sparks showered between their weapons, deep black with purple centers. Dark flame surrounded Ulamn’s weapon. He swung, but his own blade resisted his movements, like a limb fighting against its own body. Harruq shoved the attack aside with ease, stepped forward, and stabbed one of his swords through a crease in the demon’s armor.

Ulamn screamed in pain, and as he did the dark fire on his blade vanished. Qurrah gave him no time to recover. His whip lashed, wrapping around fingers. The whip burst into flame, but instead of dropping the sword Ulamn jerked the whip right out of Qurrah’s grasp. The fire vanished, and he shook off the leather with a glare. A few well-placed strikes with his sword sent Harruq staggering back.

“You will beg,” Ulamn said, still stinking of burned feathers. His glare at Qurrah was full of promises. “When your bones are pebbles, and your flesh is peeled and gone, you will beg.”

“Good luck getting to him,” Harruq said, bracing his legs for another charge.

Ulamn burst into a run with such speed Harruq was completely unprepared for the elbow that slammed into his face. He could have been gutted, but Ulamn’s sword slipped right past, aimed straight for Qurrah’s stomach. Qurrah slammed his hands together, yanking a wall of shadow from the ground. The sword could not penetrate. Harruq fell back against the shadow wall, lashing out with his blades. Salvation clacked against armor, but Condemnation nicked a piece of neck, drawing blood. Ulamn swung, attempting to sever Harruq in two. Quick as he had summoned the shadow wall, Qurrah released it. Harruq fell, the gigantic blade slicing the air above his head.

“Hemorrhage,” Qurrah shouted again, leaping past his brother with his hand outstretched. It connected with Ulamn’s chestplate, and from it magic poured out stronger than ever. The demon screamed as the flesh of his chest exploded with blood. He fell to one knee, gasping through the pain. He backhanded Qurrah with his gauntlet, strong enough to draw blood from his nose. With a quivering arm, he grabbed his sword and shoved it forward, hoping to gut Qurrah while he staggered. Harruq, however, had other ideas. From his perch on his back he slapped the blade away with both his swords, rolled to a sitting position, and then lunged. His knee smashed Ulamn’s face. As they heard the sick crunch, Harruq slipped Salvation’s edge against Ulamn’s throat.

“You can yield,” Harruq said as he pressed hard enough to draw blood. “Pull your troops out and be gone.”

“I’d rather die,” Ulamn said. He lunged for his sword, knowing full well he would never reach it. Harruq snarled like a beast as he yanked his blade, tearing open the demon’s throat. Gurgling and gasping, Ulamn clutched the wound with his hands and bled until he died.

“Come,” Qurrah said, grabbing his brother’s arm and pulling him further up the stairs. “Our time is short.”

“Yeah,” Harruq said, wiping blood from his face and following after.

T essanna stood before the throne room, openly weeping. Her face was not of sorrow, though, but of vicious, unbridled fury. In the corner Velixar lay curled on his hands and knees, gasping out labored breaths as he watched the girl with blackest eyes approach the dying portal.

“You both were fools to try what you did,” she said to Velixar without looking at him. “Neither of you could have survived without my help. Mommy would have torn you to pieces.”

She spun and glared at Karak’s prophet.

“I’ve carried the burden, same as you both,” she said. “But I hid it. You never saw it, never felt it, but I’m why you two never crumpled under the weight. Thousands of troops, you damn fool.”

She turned back to the portal and took another step. It swirled a dark blue, and within its ripples she saw hundreds of stars. She lifted her arms and let her tears fall.

“He’s gone,” she said. “His hold on the portal is gone. You feel it too, don’t you? Of course you do. That’s why you’re a crumpled child. My lover’s gone. He’s cursed me, blamed me, and abandoned me. What am I to do, pawn of a death god? What do I do?”

The drain of the portal was an acute pain in her mind, and with all her focus she grabbed it, held it firm.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she said to Velixar. “If I’m a disease to this world, then I’ll burn the world away. I will give you what you want. What you’ve always wanted. Will you live to see it?”

She poured all her power, the power of a goddess, into tearing open the portal. It swirled larger and larger, and the entire castle shook beneath her feet. She never heard the castle doors swing open, but when Qurrah’s voice rang out behind her, she spun, tears of blood running down her face.

“Qurrah?” she asked, her hair fluttering in an ethereal wind.

“Don’t!” he shouted as loud as he could. “Forgive me, Tess, I was wrong. Close the damn thing!”

Her mouth dropped open. Her black eyes flared red and white. She was furious at his earlier words. She was joyful he was alive. She was confused by the sight of Harruq with him, and she was afraid of what it might mean. And above all, she was hurt, very hurt.

“No,” she said. “You’ve earned this.”

A final wave of her hand and the portal stretched wall to wall, filling the entire castle with its glow. Air blasted outward. Harruq held onto his brother, lifting an arm and bracing his body against the door to hold them still. In the corner, Velixar laughed.

The portal rippled. A frightening stillness filled the room, broken only by their breathing and Velixar’s maniacal laughter.

“What have you done?” Harruq dared ask.

And then Thulos, god of war, stepped through the portal and into the land of Dezrel.

Content

The Shadows of Grace

David Dalglish THE HALF-ORC SERIES Prologue

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