A Sliver of Redemption

28

T here was only one plan Bernard would accept, and he told them of it that morning.

“Everywhere people whisper of Antonil’s return,” he told the two assassins while they gathered within the small basement of an Ashhur sympathizer. “And you yourself saw the many fires in the distance. Whatever chance they have, it dies against the dragon Melorak has summoned.”

“You don’t know that,” Veliana insisted.

“How many soldiers could they have?” Bernard asked. “Even with the angels’ help, they will die by the hundreds against that beast. It must be destroyed. You saw how weak Melorak looked. The strain of keeping that dragon in existence must be a heavy toll. Against him, I have a chance.”

“Then let us come with you,” Deathmask said. “He’ll have guards, paladins…”

The priest shook his head.

“He’ll have his undead, and they are nothing to me. The rest will be at the wall. This is the last battle, and he knows it. Even if he has a few guards, I must rely on his pride to accept a challenge. I am a priest of his most hated enemy, and to refuse would be a sign of weakness, a direct insult he will not dare allow. You two must find a way to get Antonil inside the city.”

Deathmask rolled his eyes.

“We meet here in a dark cellar, just the three of us, so you can tell me and Vel to go open the massive gates to the two walls? Have you lost your mind, old man?”

Bernard smiled. “Perhaps. But Haern is still out there, and as long as we are separate, he will hunt for you. I need him far and away, unable to help Melorak should the duel turn to my favor. The city is ripe for rebellion. The oppression is too heavy, too brutal. Find a way to get Antonil into Mordeina’s streets, and the Lionsguard will be crushed beneath their heels.”

“Reckless and stupid,” Veliana said. “You ask for the impossible. Thousands of soldiers and archers will line every inch of that wall. Deathmask’s magic is strong, but even he can’t pulverize doors that enormous.”

“I have faith you’ll find a way,” the priest said, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

“And I have faith in nothing,” Deathmask said. “Other than that we’re all going to die if we do this.”

“I’d hoped you’d have a bit more faith than that,” Bernard said.

Deathmask slipped the gray cloth over his scarred face and scattered ash into the air.

“I do,” he said as the ash revolved around his head. “Faith that I’ll kill plenty before I meet the reaper-man. Go with your god, Bernard. If he’s not too far gone, maybe he’ll send us a miracle. Right now, we need one.”

A shhur’s army marched for the capital before dawn had fully bloomed, determined to lose no distance to Thulos’s chasing army. The Eschaton stayed with Ahaesarus and his angels, who walked upon the ground in an attempt to give hope and cheer to the many soldiers.

“How far back are they?” Tarlak asked after a half hour’s march.

Ahaesarus motioned for one of his few scouts in the air. The angel swooped low and gave his report.

“Two miles at most,” said the angel. “And gaining fast.”

“They’ll come upon us before we can even reach the first of the walls,” Tarlak said, frowning.

“Then we have little time to spare,” said Ahaesarus. “When the battle starts, we will fly to Avlimar and set up formations. The display should be enough to goad Thulos into battle.”

“Don’t forget to bring us with you,” said Harruq. “I want my crack at that Thulos.”

“You had one back in Veldaren,” Aurelia said, her frown showing what she thought of the idea. “You ended up with a horrible wound in your chest.”

“Still breathing, though,” Harruq said. “And now I’ve got something to pay him back for!”

Twenty minutes later they crossed through a thin collection of hills, weaving through them along a well-worn path in the grass. Mordeina came into view, banners waving from her walls. High above, Avlimar glittered like a second sun.

“Urge them on,” Ahaesarus said to Antonil after receiving another report from his scout. “We might not reach the walls at the pace they chase!”

Onward they marched, the great city of Mordeina growing ever closer. Harruq felt his nerves gather in his throat, and he started wishing the battle would begin at any moment. Their run to the city didn’t feel like an attack; it felt like a desperate retreat. Perhaps it even was. Most likely they would die crushed against the walls. Still, if they were lucky, they might take a god with them before the end.

The city loomed nearer. The banners flapped in the soft breeze, close enough now for them to read their sigils. They saw the many archers lining the walls, more than enough to make the half-orc shiver. They would assault under a rain of arrows, of that he was certain. He looked back to the thousands that followed, a collected force from Neldar, Ker, and Mordan. Armies of three nations, come together against the might of Karak. And that wasn’t counting the angels and war demons…

“This is going to get bloody,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Aurelia squeezed his hand, showing she heard. He kissed her cheek and continued on marching.

They were trampling the short grass upon the fields before the walls when the scout returned once more, this time looking frightened.

“A quarter of a mile, if that,” he said. “They have thousands of what appear to be undead, plus many more soldiers travelling behind them. Thulos himself must be whipping their tails given how fast they march.”

Ahaesarus spread his wings. They were mere minutes from the wall, and slowing down to form ranks. The battle was upon them.

“Come with me,” Ahaesarus said, offering his hand to Aurelia. Judarius offered his arms to Harruq, who grudgingly accepted.

“Don’t drop me, eh?” he said.

“I’ll try,” said the angel. “Though all those losses in sparring might have loosened my grip a little.”

Harruq glanced to Tarlak, who only shook his head and laughed a hollow laugh.

“Be safe you two,” the wizard said. Then they were gone, soaring into the air in the arms of the angels. Harruq felt a momentary spell of dizziness at the sudden height, followed by exhilaration. That exhilaration turned to fear when they turned to see the great host giving chase. The war demons fluttered into ranks, hovering over the lines of warriors. Harruq craned his head to watch Antonil and Bram rearrange their own forces into two lines. One enormous line moved toward the city gates. A much smaller line remained put, and it seemed like it would be only a stumbling block against the attackers.

Harruq said a quick prayer for those chosen to be in that last line, then looked to the sky. They climbed higher and higher until they were far above the city, and the battlefield below looked like a collection of ants scurrying toward one another. Avlimar glittered before him, stunning in its golden beauty and pearl walls.

“Wait here,” Judarius said as he set the half-orc down on one of the large clearings along the outer edges, designed for the angels to easily land and take wing from. Ahaesarus arrived with Aurelia moments later, and she smiled at Harruq as she stepped onto the comforting stone.

“We will fight only a little while in the air,” Ahaesarus said as Judarius flapped his wings and took off. “Then we will retreat further in. Ashhur’s blessing permeates every single brick and hall. It is within here we will make our stand.”

“If you see a demon carrying a priest of Karak, you let him land, eh?” Harruq said. “I want the privilege of killing Velixar, not some very, very long fall.”

“I will consider,” said the angel before joining the rest of his kind.

Suddenly they were alone, the city calm and empty behind them. Only the angels flew circles about, spread wide to exaggerate their numbers. Aurelia took his hand as they stood to watch.

“Stay with me,” she said. “Please, just stay with me until the end.”

He pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

“Until the end,” he said.

“T hey flee to their golden city,” Thulos said as the angels of Ashhur took flight. Velixar watched as he strode alongside the war god at the front of the army.

“Just the angels,” he said. “What plan do they have?”

“The height,” Thulos said. He pointed to where the rest of the army hurried toward the walls. “If we assault the ground troops, they will dive down atop us. In aerial combat, this is equivalent to us putting our backs to their blades. Too great a risk for a fight we are set to win. Let them choose their place of combat. Their blood will stain gold as well as grass.”

Velixar nodded as he watched the angels fly. He cast a spell to enhance his vision, hoping to better see their numbers. As they flew, he felt a smile spread across his ever-changing face. There, hanging in the arms of one of the angels…

Harruq. It had to be.

“Who will command the ground troops?” Velixar asked.

Thulos gave him a surprised look. “I presumed it would be you.”

“Give the honor to Myann. He has been cross ever since our failure at the Bloodbrick. I wish to go with you.”

“And why is that, prophet? Do you desire to slay angels? Are mere mortals no longer worthy of your judgment?”

Velixar made sure he answered in total calm.

“There is one among the angels whom I have long sought after. I wish him to join me, or die at my feet. He helped bring you into our world, and he deserves a chance to repent.”

“Repent?” asked Thulos. “You are a strange one, Velixar. So be it. I will give Myann control. You may come with me in the arms of my demons. Just do not get in my way, nor presume my warriors will give any reprieve. If your…friend dies at their hands, do not bring the matter to me.”

Thulos raised a fist and shouted orders. Velixar ignored him, instead pushing through the ranks of his undead until reaching where Qurrah and Tessanna marched hand in hand. He frowned at such contact, and a single thought to the half-orc forced him to let go.

“We go to the golden city,” he said, unable to contain his joy. “We go to end this once and for all. Your brother and your lover, Qurrah; they will both be there. Let us see just where your heart truly lies.”

He flagged down a demon and ordered others to be brought with him. The demon cursed him but obeyed. Two more arrived, and in their arms, the three soared with the rest into the air, flying higher and higher toward the angels of Ashhur. Velixar gave his undead a single order, one they would follow until they beat their fists against the walls of Mordeina: slay the living before you.

“A glorious day,” he shouted to Qurrah, who was too far away to hear due to the roaring wind in their ears.

The three carrying them stayed back as the forces collided. The demons swung their glaives and flung their spears, spilling blood like rain to the ground far below. The angels weaved and cut just as viciously, and Velixar felt the exhilaration growing within him. He wished to help but could not, not until they were closer and he felt firm ground beneath his feet. The angels merged from their spread out pattern into a thin stream of warriors, and they sliced through the demon ranks like cloth.

Then Thulos arrived. An enormous pair of crimson wings stretched from slots in the armor on his back, and he cut angels down left and right, tumbling their severed bodies to the battle below. After he killed a score, the rest retreated into the city in a stream of feathers and gold armor. The demons carrying the three closed in, and on one of the many landing platforms set them down.

“Stay with me,” Velixar said to the two. Shadows sparked off his fingertips, as if unable to contain the killing magic he so desperately wished to unleash. “Aid me in killing the angels, Qurrah. Let us put your strength to good use.”

T arlak stood between the paladins, watching the army approach. They were but a thousand, a thin line to catch the brunt of Thulos’s strength. All around the men stood with grim faces and naked blades.

“I can slow and disrupt the charge,” Tarlak said. “Once they’re here, just keep me alive and my spells will tear them to pieces. Oh, and don’t die yourselves, all right?”

“We’ll try our best,” Jerico said. He saluted the wizard. “But try to keep us alive as well. It only seems fair.”

“What, I have to kill great hordes of attackers and babysit you two? Now you’re asking too much.”

Lathaar started chuckling, but not at Tarlak’s joke. When he couldn’t stop, Jerico asked him what was so humorous.

“Don’t you see?” he said, pointing to the coming throng.

“See what?” asked Jerico.

“His army. Nearly half of it is undead.”

“More undead?” Jerico’s face spread into a wicked grin. “Is that so?”

They lumbered closer, poorly armed and armored, and only a few hundred yards away.

“Personally, I’m sick of killing undead,” Tarlak said, fire bursting around his hands. “But you two have the time of your lives.”

He hurled balls of fire, which soared across the distance and detonated, roasting tens at a time. He followed up with a pair of boulders he ripped out of the ground behind him, sending them crashing through the ranks. All around, the soldiers saw Tarlak’s display and cheered.

“Getting close,” Jerico said.

“I know,” Lathaar said.

He sheathed his shortsword and held his longsword with both hands. With his eyes closed, Lathaar prayed to Ashhur, hoping his faith was not lost. He still felt doubt clawing at him, but in this he felt certain. In this, he knew his place.

“Elholad,” he whispered.

His sword turned to a blade of purest light, the white rolling off it in thin waves like frost off a pond in the morning. Lathaar let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and then looked to the charging undead.

“Don’t let them pass!” he cried to his allies, his voice carrying to the thousand. “Do not retreat a step. They are dead. They are mindless. We are the living. We are the strong. Slay them, men of Dezrel! Show the gods your strength!”

Tarlak punctuated his sentence with a bolt of lightning, the boom rolling over them matched only by the roar of the undead crashing into the line. And hold they did, slamming their shields and stabbing their swords as the undead fell, and fell, until they formed a barrier for their own.

Clamoring over the pile of dead, they lunged at the defenders, clawing and biting at their armor. In the very center, Lathaar and Jerico fought like the paragons they were. Lathaar’s sword sliced through the throng while Jerico’s shield exploded their bodies into bones and dust with every slam. Tarlak did his best to aid the rest, hurling bolts of lightning up and down the lines.

Hundreds died, but as the wall before them grew, Thulos lost far more.

“No fear!” Lathaar cried, and his words carried the blessing of Ashhur. “Feel no fear, no sorrow, no pain!”

The line, which had begun to weaken, suddenly surged forward, cutting down the undead. Blood soaked their armor, and rot coated their blades. The ground rumbled as Tarlak summoned a few more boulders, rolling them just behind the pile of dead to crush hundreds, giving them a moment’s breather before the rest hit. The assault continued relentless, but they gained no ground. A thousand fell, their bodies robbed of the false life given to them by Velixar.

But a thousand more pressed on.

Jerico let out a cry to Ashhur and shoved his shield forward. Light burst from its surface. The nearest undead collapsed, unable to endure, while hundreds more in all directions stumbled as if suddenly robbed of sight. Lances of ice plowed through their ranks, and the defenders surged forward yet again, cutting them down.

“We’ve got them!” Tarlak shouted, leaning over as he caught his breath. The undead were scattered and few, easy prey for the defenders. A quick estimate showed they still had seven hundred standing against Thulos’s men…all four thousand of them.

“Well,” Jerico said as the first wave approached. “At least we built a wall.”

Tarlak laughed and cracked his knuckles.

“Time for another…”

He stopped as a great roar echoed through the valley, so powerful that even Thulos’s conscripts halted.

“What the abyss was that?” he asked, and then he turned and saw it.

The creature soared out of Mordeina, black smoke billowing after. It flew a single circle above Antonil’s troops, then plummeted, scattering men like they were playthings.

“That’s not good,” Lathaar said, and Tarlak couldn’t contain his laughter at the greatest understatement he’d heard in years.

“No,” he said, turning his attention back to the conscripts resuming their charge, hesitant as if they also were afraid of the great beast slaughtering men by the hundreds. “No, I think I can safely say we’re all fucked.”

B ernard left for the castle, and Deathmask and Veliana moved for the wall. But instead of going straight for it, Deathmask veered them back to the castle and found a large mansion with a gently sloping roof.

“Why are we here?” Veliana asked as Deathmask looked for a way to climb up.

“I’m tired of being hunted,” he said, grabbing a windowsill and pulling. “Now help me before I embarrass myself.”

She boosted his foot so he could plant it on the sill, then grab a hold of the roof and climb up. Veliana used a similar maneuver, though she needed no help, and her lithe body landed atop the roof with a soft thud.

“Show off,” Deathmask said, winking.

“What is it we’re waiting for?” she asked. “Can’t you see? The battle is about to start!”

She pointed to where the demons flew toward Avlimar in diamond formations. Deathmask ignored her, for he kept his gaze to the castle.

“Just wait,” he said.

“For what?”

He glared at her through the gray mask. “I said wait.”

Minutes crawled. With her arms crossed, Veliana watched the battle in the sky vanish into the interior of Avlimar. Deathmask knew she wondered why they hadn’t made for the wall like Bernard asked them, but then Rakkar announced its presence with a great roar that shook the city. It tore into the sky, breathing fire and spreading smoke with each beat of its wings. It sailed right over them, the passing of its shadow chilling both to the bone.

“Go,” Deathmask said, suddenly urging Veliana toward the castle. “Help Bernard, and quickly!”

“What? But he asked…”

“I don’t care what he asked!” Deathmask shouted, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close. “He is a fool if he thinks the two of us can get that army inside. This city lives or dies by Melorak’s hand. Go, while the dragon is gone!”

She pulled her wrist free and glared.

“And you? What will you do?”

Deathmask pointed far down the street, where Haern ran along the rooftops toward them.

“There’s a reason we’re up here,” he said, grinning. “Like I said, I’m tired of being the hunted. Go. Kill the priest-king, and I’ll deal with our stalker.”

She kissed her palm and then blew it to him.

“You better live, you bastard,” she said before leaping off the roof.

Deathmask cracked his neck and looked to Haern.

“Planned on it,” he said as the assassin landed before him, his sabers drawn. He leered up at him with his dead eyes. Deathmask saw a hint of recognition in them and wondered just how loose Melorak’s control had grown. With both the dragon and the assassin to dominate, he had to be stretched thin. Perhaps that would gain him an advantage. Or perhaps it would let more of Haern’s skill return, and he’d die in seconds. Only one way to find out.

“An age ago, you and I dominated an entire city,” he said as Haern remained crouched and ready to lunge. He kept a spell ready, the single word of power eager on his lips. “It is such a disgrace to see you like this. Let me end it, Watcher. Let me send you to the grave, free from the priest-king’s taint.”

Still Haern remained, watching, waiting. Deathmask gave him no sign of attack. He would not be goaded into making the first move.

“Can you even understand me?” he asked. “Or is your brain rotted and worthless, your soul just a mindless ghost following orders…”

In the distance, Rakkar roared, and Haern lunged with it, his movements a sudden blur. Deathmask cast his spell. Fire burst in a circle around him, soaring twenty feet high in a great circular pillar. Haern twisted to the side, pulling back from his killing lunge. He was just a half-seen shadow but Deathmask tracked him best he could and then guessed at a landing. When the fire lowered, he slammed his hands together. The pillar exploded anew, this time further down the roof. Haern twisted, landing on one hand and then remaining like that as the fire surrounded him.

“I’ve got you,” Deathmask said, grinning.

Haern suddenly vanished and reappeared several feet to his right, still standing on his hand.

Neat trick, he thought as the assassin dove underneath his barrage of shadow bolts. He jumped and rolled in a circle, constantly seeking his back. Deathmask kept spinning, flinging shadow and conjuring fire in a desperate offense. The second he relented, and Haern closed the gap, he knew he was dead. He kept a ring of fire about him, ready to erupt in a moment’s notice. Once he thought Haern ready to stab, but it was just a feint, and he wasted yet another bit of his concentration ripping the fire into a wall to protect himself.

In the light of the flame, he lost sight of Haern. Knowing he had erred, and badly, he crouched down and activated one last spell. Bat wings stretched from his back, and he lifted into the air, hoping to put as much distance between them as he could. A blade slashed his leg as Haern lunged, and he screamed as the blood ran down. He flapped the ethereal wings harder. Haern twisted as he fell, hit the roof, and then leaped as if gravity were a nuisance he could ignore at will. Stunned, Deathmask flung several orbs of fire, all missing. Haern slammed into him, cutting and slicing. They fell, a jumbled collection of wings, cloaks, and swords.

Deathmask landed atop of Haern, and he dismissed the wings. Pain flared up and down his chest, and he knew he had a dozen cuts. One of Haern’s sabers lay far to the side, a wonderful blessing if he’d ever seen one. Deathmask clutched the wrist that held the other, and it took all his strength to keep it pressed against the rooftop. With his free hand he reached for Haern’s face, fire swarming about his skin. Haern grabbed his wrist and held on, keeping back the deadly flame.

“Just a little fire,” Deathmask said, gritting his teeth and flinging all the force of his weight down on his arm. Still Haern held back. The burning hand inched closer, closer. Haern’s eyes locked on his, and they stared, watching, struggling. The hand lowered once more. And then it rose. His strength was not enough. Deathmask felt horror rise in his throat as the assassin began lifting him off.

“Don’t you do this,” Deathmask shouted. “Goddamn it, remember who you are! Remember who you serve!”

The muscles in his neck stretched, and he pushed down with all his might. If he could just touch Haern with his hand, just once, for only a moment…

“Delysia…” Haern suddenly whispered. The hand wavered. As they stared, Deathmask watched recognition slowly bloom in his eyes. The hand lowered. And lowered. And then, with one sudden tug, Haern flung Deathmask’s hand against his cold dead face. As the fire burned, he smiled.

“Rest well,” Deathmask said as the decaying body burst into flame, the gray robes and cloaks billowing smoke as they were consumed. He stepped back, tightened the cloth about his face, and looked to the wall. The archers atop fired volley after volley, and still he heard Rakkar roar. He might not be able to open the gates, but perhaps he could still help. He scooped a bit of the ash of Haern’s corpse, flung it, and set it into motion about his face. With the mask complete, he climbed down to the street.

It was time the Ghost ignited the fires of rebellion.

B ernard knelt in prayer, hidden in a small alcove between two homes. If he’d looked up and opened his eyes, he would have seen the row of guards standing at the top of the steps guarding the castle doors. But he didn’t, not for several minutes more. At last, when he felt any more delay would be cowardice only, he stood and approached. The guards drew their swords, but they were only four.

“Let me pass, and no harm will come to you,” he said.

“Get lost,” said one.

“Wait, I recognize those robes,” said another. “He’s a priest. Arrest him!”

“That wouldn’t be wise,” said Bernard.

When the first reached for his arm, Bernard turned his palm toward the soldier’s face and spoke a word of power. Blinding light burst outward, and the man screamed and stumbled back. His foot slipped on the stairs, and then he rolled down them, landing hard on the street below. The second guard swung his sword, but the priest stepped back and clapped his hands. Two orbs of light flared into existence as his hands opened, then shot directly into his attacker’s chest. The guard collapsed, his limbs shaking wildly.

The other two rushed at once, trying to close the distance. Bernard wore no armor, and wielded no blade to defend himself. It didn’t matter. He blinded one, then made a slashing motion with his hand. A golden blade shimmered in the air, appearing just long enough to cut him down before fading away. Another slash with his hand, and the final guard toppled, blind and bleeding from a gash across his throat.

“A bad idea,” the priest muttered, pulling open the castle doors and stepping inside.

He gasped at the sight within. Men and women hung from hooks along the walls, like slabs of meat at a butcher’s hall. They stared with naked eyes, their lids sliced off. At his entrance they writhed against the hooks and reached out, moaning in warning. A shiver of fear ran through him, quickly replaced by anger.

“Such disrespect toward life,” he said, taking a step toward the nearest. “You sad, wretched thing. Rest now. Death comes for you with its sweet respite.”

His hand glowed a soft white, and then the corpse turned to dust, the dark magic within it unable to withstand such power. He looked to the others, spreading his arms toward each side of the hall.

“Be gone!” he cried, washing the grand entrance with his faith. The undead shook as if in great pain, and then went still. One by one they fell to the floor, their flesh now dust and their bones broken clay. A foreboding silence replaced their wails, and through the dust Bernard strode down the hall toward the throne room.

Even through the stone walls, he heard Rakkar’s roar signaling its departure for the battlefield. Bernard offered a quick prayer for those who would face its wrath, then continued on. It was Rakkar that he had come to stop. Melorak was its ruler, its link to the world. It was time to end the priest-king and save Mordeina from his madness.

The throne room was equally defiled by the dead, and he spent a moment to give them the peace they’d been denied. He’d expected Melorak to be there, but was not. Closing his eyes, he let his magical senses wander. He was less attuned than any wizard or necromancer, but in matters of faith, his sense was strong, though it didn’t matter. Melorak pulsed like a giant heart of darkness. It was like searching for a mountain with the eyes of a hawk.

He passed down the stone hallways, turning every now and then should he wander too far. He kept his hands at his sides, glowing with the light of Ashhur. His fingertips brushed the undead along the walls, turning them to dust and silencing their groans. At last he stepped into what had once been a garden, before Karak had had his way with it. Ugly runes covered the dead grass, carved with blood. The few trees were barren, their branches shriveled into themselves. In the center, amid torn earth, stood Melorak.

“I’ve wondered when I would meet you again,” he said, slowly opening his eyes. They had a distant look to them, as if he were half-asleep. He smiled, his lone good eye smoldering red. “Perhaps you don’t remember me, but I remember you. For twenty years you resisted the inevitable, protecting your pathetic temple to Ashhur while my faithful conquered the hearts and minds of the people.”

“What was your name?” Bernard asked. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and he felt a wave of anxiety sweep over him. There, in that blasted clearing, he seemed so far away from Ashhur.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Melorak. “For I have a new name, one given to me by the true god of this world. I am the heir to Velixar, the right fang of the Lion. Can you hear its roar? Even now, my beautiful creation slaughters the last remnants that still swear their faith to Ashhur.”

Bernard forced himself to calm. Ashhur hadn’t gone anywhere. His faith was strong. It was only the foul sensation, the total culmination of a thousand prayers to Karak, gathered there in that clearing to take physical form in the beast, Rakkar. He still felt its echo, its taint. Light swirled around his hands as Melorak laughed.

“You cannot challenge me,” he said. “You are nothing. Did you see the demons give chase to your angels? Even Avlimar is not safe. Karak will soon walk free. If you leave now, I will let you live to see his glorious return. Perhaps when you look upon his beautiful face you will throw yourself down and beg forgiveness for a lifetime of transgressions.”

“You have not yet won,” said Bernard.

Again Melorak laughed.

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

The white light grew in his palms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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