A Sliver of Redemption

5

I t seemed bizarre to him, but the night was no longer safe for Deathmask. Back in the chaotic city of Veldaren, he had been a master among assassins, feared for his ability to outwit, out-stealth, and outfight any challengers to his guild's revered position. But in Karak's newly conquered city of Mordeina, it was the daylight he wrapped himself in.

Veliana sat beside him as the two peered out the small second story window. Her short red hair fell past her face, hiding the long scar that had taken her right eye. The home's occupants lay unconscious on the far side of the room, no worse for wear other than the large bumps growing on the back of their heads.

“Karak’s dogs will catch on eventually,” Veliana said, twirling a dagger in her hand, her dexterous fingers handling it with ease. “And even if they don't, we're shaving a cow with a cat claw.”

Deathmask pulled a gray cloth over his face and tied a stiff knot behind his head. The only features remaining visible were his mismatched eyes, one black, one red, and his long dark hair falling far past his shoulders. They both wore dark gray cloaks, once a symbol for their guild. But that was then, before the fall of Veldaren, before Karak's conquering of Mordeina. Now they had each other, and no one else.

“We have to do something,” Deathmask said, dipping his hand into a small pouch tied at his waist. “There is no life for us here. No work. No honor. Let us die repaying those that took away everything.”

He scooped out a tiny bit of ash and sprinkled it over his face. The magic of the mask took hold, grabbing the ash and spreading it out like a hazy shield. He was a phantom, an ill omen, and he would have the priests and paladins of Karak fear his visage before they died.

“They travel in larger groups with each passing day,” Deathmask said as he resealed the pouch. “If we kill enough priests, their patrols will weaken. Perhaps then we can stir the revolt that is aching to erupt.”

“They always have the Lionsguard,” Veliana said. She nodded toward a group of seven men marching down the street. They wore the official armor of the Mordan guard, but instead of polished gold breastplates and red tunics, they wore the white skull of a lion over their gray steel. Within days of capture, all the armor pieces had been painstakingly stripped of their golden sheen, dulling them down, removing all traces of former glory and leadership.

Now there was only Melorak, puppet of the dark god.

“The Lionsguard were recruited from Mordeina,” Deathmask insisted. “Once they realize no one holds their chains, they should break free.”

“Are you so sure?” Veliana asked, glancing at him with a mischievous smile on her face.

“Mostly,” Deathmask said, grinning back.

“Leave one alive for me then,” she said, drawing her other dagger. “We'll see just how fanatical their faith is.”

The streets still bustled with plenty of activity. It was that general chaos they needed to carry out their attacks. They waited until they saw a patrol marching through the center of the street, four Lionsguard and two priests of Karak.

“Take out the guards,” Deathmask said, rubbing his hands together. “The priests are mine.”

“Do it fast,” Veliana said. She watched the patrol's approach, counted to five, then leapt into the air, a dagger in each hand. A man and his wife spotted her attack, but instead of calling warning they shouted curses to the patrol. Veliana grinned as she fell, thankful for the added distraction. Their heads turned toward the shouting couple, they were unprepared for the vicious woman that fell atop them, her daggers stabbing and her feet kicking. She slashed open one guard's throat, spun about, and buried her blades into the back of the second.

Before the priests could cast a spell, twin projectiles of fire flew from the window, each the size of a fist. They struck the priests and exploded, bathing their bodies in black flame. Their pain-filled screams filled the street. The two remaining guards swung with their swords, but they were poorly trained, no challenge for Veliana's masterful daggerwork. She kept shifting, keeping one guard in front of the other so they could not work as a team. When the first thrust with his sword, she slipped aside, smacked the blade away with her dagger, and then rushed in. Her whole body slammed against the guard. Tip after tip of her dagger thrust through the creases in his armor. Blood poured from his neck, shoulders, and arms as he collapsed, his life bleeding out upon the ground.

She expected the last guard to flee, or call for help. Instead he rushed on, seemingly not caring if he died. Veliana felt her stomach knot as she danced about and kicked the back of his knees. As he tumbled down, another bolt of fire flew from the window. It burst around the guard's breastplate, charring flesh but not killing. Veliana rolled him over, stabbed her dagger deep into his shoulder, and then thrust her face to within inches of his.

“Whom do you serve?” she asked.

“I serve the lion,” he said. Blood stained his teeth, and his voice was strained.

“What of your people?” she asked, trusting Deathmask to warn her if reinforcements arrived.

“My people?” the Lionsguard asked. “Karak’s…followers. Those are my people.”

The girl's stomach tightened. Not the faintest hint of a lie in those eyes. Religious fanaticism had taken over. There was no man left in that armor. She sliced his throat and left him to die. Standing up, she noticed over a hundred people had gathered around, watching their brutal, efficient work. She tried to read them, but was unsure. Too many looks of fear, worry, and sorrow.

She ran to the other side of the street, away from Deathmask, and catapulted herself up to the rooftops. Soldiers were finally arriving, their weapons drawn and waving uselessly about the air. As she ran, the people shouted at them, and her lips curled into a smile at what she heard.

“The Ghost will get you,” they shouted. “Him and his Blade!”

So she was the Blade? That was a good nickname. She could settle for that.

Running her zigzag pattern, she went from roof to street to roof, to where ‘the Ghost’ waited.

T he discussion soured quickly, for each had reached the same conclusion.

“The Lionsguard are so fanatical they might as well be hypnotized,” Veliana said, yanking off her boots. She let out a little moan as she dipped her feet into a small kettle filled with water. With a brush of his fingers, Deathmask warmed the water and made it bubble.

“Such a meager use for my amazing talents,” he said, removing the cloth from his face and tucking it into a pocket of his robe.

“There could be no greater use for your talents than making me happy,” she said, her eyes closed. Glancing over her thin body with its tight, catlike muscles, Deathmask chuckled.

“Perhaps you're right,” he said.

“About what?” she asked, opening her good eye.

“The Lionsguard,” Deathmask said. “What else? But I watched that last guard attack you, even though all others were dead. Not the slightest hesitation. Hypnotization may not be far from the truth. Even trained soldiers will hesitate when they know their death is at hand.”

“What about a spell?” Veliana asked, closing her eye and settling deeper into her chair. They were inside what had become their home, a modest but well furnished abode that had most likely belonged to a general, or similarly high ranking soldier of Mordeina's army. To their knowledge, that army was still heading east, joined with troops of Neldar to try and retake Veldaren and close the portal through which hundreds of war demons had flooded into Dezrel.

“A spell?” Deathmask asked. “As in, a spell forcing them to worship Karak and serve as a perfect, obedient soldier? Seems a little much. Any time a city is conquered, there are always hundreds of rats willing to show up and grab a slice of power in the newly established order.”

“Rats run when faced with death,” Veliana said. “Something else is going on here. If we're to have any hope of freeing this city, Melorak needs to die. You know that.”

The man groaned and rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

“Yes,” he said. “I know. But you've seen him fight, as have I. He sent Dieredon running like a little girl, and he killed Haern the Watcher as if he were an ant. And don’t forget, he beat the two of us back with a single spell.”

“Then we don't fight him,” she said. “Not fair. That's not us. But he sleeps. He eats. He breathes.”

“Not according to his followers,” Deathmask muttered.

“He's human,” Veliana said, her voice growing hard. “And if he's human, he can be killed. We've always boasted we can kill any man alive. Are you ready to take that back now?”

Deathmask walked over to the window. It was dark now. The streets were empty but for the hundreds of patrols. Every day they killed members of the Lionsguard, as well as priests and the occasional dark paladin. Every night, it seemed twice that number joined the patrols. They were recruiting from the populace like mad, and not just soldiers. Priests as well. Paladins, too.

“Let's say you're right,” Deathmask said, turning to face her. “Now what?”

“We learn,” Veliana said, removing her belt and untucking her shirt. “We watch, we learn, and we wait. All men have weaknesses. We find his, and we use it.”

“So do you have an idea on how to do that?” Deathmask asked, enjoying the sight of her as she stretched.

“Now that you ask,” the girl said, smiling. “Yes, I do.”

“T his is insane,” Deathmask muttered, feeling naked without his gray cloth over his face. Nor did he have the hovering ash that inspired fear and dread in all who faced him. Instead he wore simple clothing of drab colors, the knees of his pants torn loose and the entire outfit intended for a much bigger man.

“Too late to turn back now,” Veliana said beside him.

The two were near the bottom of the large hill the castle was built upon. They walked with their arms linked, their shoulders hunched and their steps staggered as if each were relying on the other for balance.

“It is not too late,” Deathmask insisted. “No guards have spotted us, so don’t lie to keep me from thinking rationally.”

Veliana giggled, much louder than he anticipated or preferred. Her entire face and hair were covered with dirt. It was their best attempt to hide the long scar across her eye that might mark her as the vigilante Blade. She waved an arm wide, and sang a bad lyric about a peasant girl and a ruffian burglar who came upon her bathing. They had purposefully avoided patrols on their way to the many steps leading up to the castle, but no longer.

“Now it’s too late,” she giggled as guards approached. Deathmask counted twenty together in the pack and felt proud in knowing that he, ‘the Ghost’, was the main reason they travelled in such large numbers.

“Hey,” Deathmask said, slurring his words and tugging Veliana forward. “Hey you guys!”

The patrol surrounded them, the Lionsguard swarming with weapons drawn. Three priests were with them, watching the events from a few paces back.

“What is your business being out this late at night?” one of the priests asked.

“We want to join,” Veliana said, pointing a finger at one of the Lionsguard with a hand that just happened to contain a rather large and empty bottle. The guard yanked away the bottle, ignoring her whimper.

“Drunkards,” the priest said after a quick sniff of the bottle. “You should be well aware this is illegal.”

“Well, yeah,” Deathmask said. He let his eyes focus and unfocus on the priest, but kept his smile locked tight. “See, we thought if we were you, then it would be legal, you know?”

“We want to join!” Veliana said again, rubbing her fingers across a guard’s arm. “Be fun, right? Good money?”

She let her fingers slide from the guard’s armor to her own chest and then giggled naughtily at the look he gave her.

“Fun?” he asked.

“Arrest them,” the priest said. “No need to let such riffraff disturb our streets. A few days in a cell will teach them Karak’s opinion on such distasteful displays.”

Deathmask tensed while Veliana continued to flirt with the guard, completely oblivious to what the priest was saying. She sucked on one finger while hugging herself with her other arm. When the guards grabbed her, only then did she seem to react.

“Wait,” she said. “What did we do wrong?”

A mailed fist struck the back of her head, and down she went. Deathmask shouted curses freely as two men held his arms. Another fist struck him, but it took two more times before he slumped, a limp sack of bone and muscle, ready for delivery to the castle prison.

W hen Deathmask came to, he opened his eyes, looked left, looked right, and then very calmly said, “Fuck.”

Veliana was gone, which was already a deviation from their original plan. The two had expected to be placed together in a holding cell of some sort, where they could be kept under control while the imaginary alcohol in their system cleared out. The second problem, and the one that elicited the crude response, was that he was not in a cell at all. He was chained to a wall at the very entrance to the prison, in clear view of over eight guards. To his right were the barred double-doors leading up to the castle grounds. Across from him, tables of guards played cards and rolled dice. Along the wall behind them, rows and rows of clubs.

“I hear you,” came a voice to his left. Deathmask looked over to see an elderly man with graying hair and half his original teeth, his arms chained to the wall above his head. When he talked, his voice grumbled and cracked. “You think, just one drink, right? Just one, and then you wake up in here, and the question, you see, the question is, is your splitting skull from the drink or from where those damn guards smacked you?”

“Yeah,” Deathmask said. “Something like that.”

“Name’s Dunk,” the man said while Deathmask shifted and checked his shackles. Thick iron, and painfully tight. His wrists were crossed above his head, the chains hooked into the low ceiling. He sat on his knees, and when he tried to stand, he found another set of shackles holding him immobile.

“Don’t bother struggling,” Dunk said. “Not even a bit of chain on your feet, just locks attached to the wall. You’ll get used to it.”

“Dunk?” Deathmask said, feeling his patience waning thin.

“Dunk the Drunk,” the old man said, and he giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

“Well then, Dunk,” Deathmask said, his voice turning icy cold. “Shut…up…now.”

“Shut it,” said the man chained to Deathmask’s right. “Your jabbering’s worse than the chains.”

There were five of them attached to the wall, and the other two chimed in their displeasure at Dunk’s talking.

“You’ll learn to appreciate me,” Dunk said. “I don’t recognize a one of you. Just wait. Third, fourth time you get tossed here, you’ll love to see a friendly face. Wish I was seeing one now.”

Deathmask smacked his head repeatedly against the stone wall behind him. They were bathed in dim light. Most of the torches in the windowless room were hanging beside the doors, with a few more surrounding the tables where the guards killed their time. One glanced back, distracted by all the chatter.

“Shut up, all of you,” the guard said, rubbing his bent nose, “or I’ll take a club and wail until my arms get tired.”

“He’s serious about that too,” Dunk said.

“Quiet!”

Dunk laughed as the guard stood, reaching for a club, but the old man said no more, and for that, Deathmask was eternally grateful. He decided when they made their escape, he would do his best to spare that guard’s life.

The thought of escape brought him back to the matter at hand. So far, he wasn’t being closely watched, and that was good. What was bad, though, was how restricted his hands and feet were. He twisted his wrists, testing their give. Very, very little. One by one he listed off the spells he could cast with such a limited motion. They were not many, and even worse, there was still the matter of the guards less than ten feet away. If he started whispering verbal components to a spell, all it would take was one to know what they were and mash a fist into his mouth to end all possibility of escape.

That left Veliana. He looked about, realizing that of the five chained by the entrance, all were men.

“Where do they put women who are brought in drunk?” Deathmask asked. The others ignored him, but Dunk just smiled. Deathmask asked a second time, and as the guards glared over, Dunk just winked and made kissing motions with his lips.

“Damn it,” Deathmask muttered. “Fine, Dunk, I’m sorry. Now, please, can you tell me?”

In answer, Dunk looked left and nodded his head toward a second set of stairs leading further into the prison.

“In chains like this?” Deathmask asked.

Dunk shook his head.

“Then like what?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

A roar rose from the tables as two men tossed down a week’s wages, each convinced of victory over the other. Deathmask used that chance to cast a simple spell. A flicker of fire shot from his fingers, just enough for him to get a better glimpse at the chains around his wrists.

Dunk’s eyes grew real big at the sight of the fire.

Another roar, coupled with laughter. The two guards had thrown down their cards, only to discover they each held the exact same hand. Deathmask tried a trickier spell, hoping he could manage the intricate movements of his fingers. Shadows curled down from the ceiling, swirling into his fingers and then pulsing into his veins.

“Dunk,” he said. “Can you lean toward me?”

“What for, devil man?” Dunk asked.

“Just do it,” Deathmask hissed. The rest of the guards were laughing and clapping the men on the back, congratulating both for the guts to bet such an amount, while both sighed with relief at knowing that, though they had not won, they had not lost. It wouldn’t be long before the hubbub died and their attention refocused.

Shifting his wiry frame over, his shoulder leading, Dunk tilted his head as close as possible. Deathmask imitated the motion, and for the briefest moment their foreheads touched. Just a slight bump, but it was enough to pour all the dark energy out of Deathmask and into Dunk. The old man’s body turned incorporeal, his muscle and bone replaced with shadow and magic. Dunk slipped from the bonds and laughed long and loud.

“I’m a ghost!” he shouted with glee. At this, the guards turned and saw the bizarre sight. They cried out in alarm, and several lunged for their weapons. Dunk wasted no time. He bolted straight for, and then through, the double-doors, vanishing into the castle.

“After him,” they cried. In the confusion, Deathmask twiddled his fingers, wincing each time the sharp metal cut into his wrists. His own body turned translucent, and during that brief moment he fell forward, freeing himself from his chains. Still unnoticed, he stood, fire bursting from his palms. Half the guards had already unlocked the doors and hurried out. The nearest of the remaining four screamed as his body was engulfed in flame. The ash of his corpse floated through the air, settling into a faint cloud swirling around Deathmask’s head.

“It’s the Ghost!” screamed a guard, flinging his club and turning to flee. Deathmask brought him down with a word. Blood poured out of his ears, mouth, and eyes. The club struck by Deathmask’s feet, doing no harm. Behind him, the remaining men chained to the wall gaped in terror. Magic flared in the small dark room, slashing the final guards to pieces with shadow blades. When the chained men continued to howl, Deathmask whirled upon them and pointed a finger.

“Quiet, or die,” he said. Two obeyed. A third did not. Deathmask shot a single bolt of dark magic through his throat. The man quieted. Shaking his head, Deathmask rushed deeper into the prison. Halfway down the stairs he met a guard rushing up to investigate the confusion. Deathmask put a hand upon his throat and whispered two words of power. The guard collapsed, his throat constricted and unable to open for breath.

At the bottom of the steps was another door. As he reached for the handle he cried out in alarm. The door swung out, cracking him across the shoulder. He collapsed to the ground, muttering and promising death. Instead, a feminine hand reached down to help him up.

“I had to kill seven,” Veliana said, pulling him to his feet. “What took you so long?”

“They chained me to a wall,” Deathmask said. “You?”

“Holding cell with two other women. Nice gals.”

The two rushed back up the steps, stepped over the dead bodies, and approached the double-doors to the jail. Against the wall, the remaining two prisoners closed their eyes and bit their tongues to hold in their sobs.

“Guards?” Veliana whispered, gesturing to the doors.

Deathmask nodded.

On the count of three, Veliana slammed them open. The two guards posted with their backs to them could only yelp in surprise before she slammed a club across their faces, shattering cartilage and splattering blood across the floor. Frowning at the club, Veliana dropped it and took the shortswords from the unconscious guards. She twirled them in her hands and whispered a word of magic. A soft purple glow surrounded the blades, strengthening them.

“We’ll be near the soldiers’ quarters,” Deathmask said. “Where do you figure this Melorak will be?”

“The throne room,” Veliana said, glancing up and down the hallway they had entered.

“I figured he would be with his priests,” Deathmask said as he followed her.

“No,” Veliana said, stopping at another intersection. They had been to the castle only a couple of times before, but that was enough for Veliana to have memorized the bulk of the corridors and winding passageways. So far, no sign of guards, and in that they were lucky, for Dunk had led most of them on a wild goose chase through walls and out into the streets of Mordeina.

Dead of night, three hours before dawn, and as they had hoped most of the castle was asleep. Veliana had been adamant: if there was any time to strike, it was at night.

“It doesn’t matter how powerful he is,” Veliana had argued during the creation of their plan. “All men are the same when they sleep.”

The castle was incredibly well guarded on the outside, but within, other than the dozen at the entrance to the jail, it was unnaturally empty. Before, there might have been servants and nobles and all the miscellaneous characters of courtly life. Instead, there was silence. Melorak had executed everyone with the slightest hint of nobility. As for the servants, the cooks, the ladies-in-waiting, well…

Deathmask did his best to ignore the rotting corpses hanging from hooks hammered into the wall. For some reason they didn’t smell, and he felt his fingers tingle with the proximity of magic. Not right, he thought. Not right at all.

“So we’re here,” Deathmask said, gesturing to the expansive and empty throne room. “Why are we here again?”

“Quiet,” Veliana said, glaring at him with her lone eye. She pointed to a door at the far right of the throne. “In there,” she said. “That will lead to several rooms for servants, and then the king’s quarters.”

Deathmask chuckled at the word ‘king.’ So far Melorak had been adamant no one call him a king, to the point of issuing an edict threatening pain of death to those who dared say it. He was a priest, a prophet, but not a king. It made no sense at all to Deathmask, but it did reinforce to him that whoever this man was, he couldn’t possibly be sane.

“There will be a secret passageway out of the room,” Veliana said. “So we have to strike fast to prevent him from fleeing.”

“I don’t think fleeing is something this guy does,” Deathmask said. Still, he did his best to open the door quietly. In the days of old, several guards would have stood at attention through all hours of the day to ensure the safety of king and queen’s possessions, so that no would-be assassin poisoned clothes or slipped snakes into the bed sheets. Now, though, it appeared Melorak feared nothing. No guards, not for him. Just the streets, and the exterior of the castle.

They crept down the hallway, silent as ghosts. They passed by two small doors, most likely servants’ quarters, and then small windows opened up along the wall, revealing glimpses of the bedroom. Paintings lined the walls, and long curtains trailed from the ceiling before looping back upward. In the center was the gilded bed, and through the thin curtains both assassins could clearly see a sleeping form.

See, he sleeps, Deathmask said through quick motions of his fingers in an intricate language thieves had developed over a hundred years.

Silent, Veliana signaled back. No pause. You right. Me left.

At the end of the hall was the door into the bedroom. Deathmask grabbed the latch with his left hand and cast a spell with his other. When he lifted the latch, it made not a sound. He touched the hinges and again cast the spell. The door swung open without the slightest creak. In perfect unison the two stepped into the room. Their footfalls were softer and quieter than a gentle snowfall. Their clothes did not rustle. No light glinted off their possessions. A shadow of death, the both of them.

And it didn’t matter.

Halfway to the bed, they stopped as the ceiling erupted in a cacophony of wails and shrieks. Veliana’s eyes glanced up. Her hands shook, and her heart skipped. Hidden by the many curtains and hanging by thick nails and hooks were twenty corpses, every one animated by Melorak’s dark magic. Their eyelids were peeled and gone. The corpses saw the assassins’ entrance, and did exactly as they had been commanded to do: scream.

“Damn it,” Veliana shouted, her strong legs propelling her forward. Deathmask trailed after, a spell on his lips. They still had a chance, if they could catch Melorak in the confusion. Deathmask’s spell burst the curtains around the bed into flame, and through their dissipating ash Veliana leapt, her shortswords thrusting downward.

But for Melorak, there was no difference between dream and wake, for in both he dwelt in the darkness of Karak’s embrace. A cocoon of shadows swirled from underneath the bed, entombing his body. Veliana’s swords sparked at contact with it, and then the metal shattered. She screamed, the shards shooting back in all directions. Blood ran down her face and arms.

“Get out!” Deathmask shouted. He flung a bolt of magic, and in the brief flash of its travel a thin purple tail trailed after it like a comet. It splashed against the shadow barrier like water on stone. As Veliana retreated, clutching her face, the two felt icy shudders travel up and down their spines, for amid the din of undead shrieks they heard joyful laughter.

Melorak emerged from the cocoon with a smile on his face.

“The Ghost and his Blade,” he said, his smile growing. “How I’ve ached to meet you.”

His face was plain, his hair neat and trimmed. His teeth glimmered white compared to his dark skin and deep brown hair. If his face was plain, his eyes, however, were not. One shone a deep red, as if it were a window into the fiery abyss. The other was a milky white, victim to Mordeina’s dying queen in a last act of vengeance against the man who had destroyed her kingdom.

“We’ve met,” Deathmask said. His whole body straightened. “Bye now.”

He clapped. Power rushed forth, and before Melorak could react, a wall of fire cut the room in half, separating him from the assassins. Hand in hand, they fled.

“Find them, my children!” Melorak shouted, and his voice carried throughout the entire castle on magical wings. He waved his hands, whispering a prayer to Karak. The fire died. Still smiling, Melorak threw on his black priestly robes. He would make an example of the two assassins, and he intended it to be very long, and very public. He needed to be ready, for he had no doubt that they would be captured within the hour.

T hey had reached the throne room by the time Melorak’s command rolled through the castle. At first they feared guards, but when they turned a corner, a hand reached out, fingers entangling Veliana’s hair. She did not scream, only twist and kick. Her kick did nothing but sink into the rotten flesh of the corpse attached to the walls. It screamed and moaned, still reaching.

“Go back to death you mongrel,” Deathmask said, shoving his fingers into the thing’s eyes. His magic poured in, releasing it from its spell. Flesh peeled, and innards plopped to the floor in a soupy mess. Veliana broke two of its fingers off getting the rest of her hair free, then threw the pieces of bone to the floor. On the other side of the hallway, another corpse waved its arms uselessly and shouted again and again in a mindless roar.

“The guards-” Veliana said. She didn’t need to finish, for Deathmask clearly understood as well. They fled down the hall, and with each turn, each step, their passage was tracked by the myriad of corpses shouting out their location. Calls of alarm from actual living guards soon joined their tail.

Deathmask followed Veliana with perfect trust. He slammed his fists to the ground at the first patrol they found, unleashing his fury into the stone. The floor cracked, and then spikes tore from ground to ceiling blocking them off. Veliana didn’t say a word at their sudden change in direction, only sprinting the other way, bobbing and weaving as necessary to avoid the undead arms and legs. They passed a flight of stairs, and almost as if it were an after-thought, the woman turned back and sprinted up them, Deathmask quickly after.

“Height is our friend now,” she said.

They travelled upward, into what appeared to be a tall defensive tower. They passed a few unused bunks for soldiers, along with many windows facing the steps leading up to the castle. Veliana peered through them, pondering.

“Time is not our friend,” Deathmask said.

“No use going further up,” Veliana said. “I hoped to avoid those damn undead, but there are no connecting bridges, no ladders, and no pathways. This is a dead end.”

“Then down we go,” Deathmask said.

As if in answer, they heard guards shouting, followed by the clanking of armor rushing up steps. Veliana kissed her palms with trembling lips. Purple fire engulfed them, making her deadly hands that much deadlier. Deathmask shook his head, realizing her aim.

“No last stands,” he said. “Not for us, not ever. We kill, or we flee. There is no in-between.”

“Then let’s kill,” she said. “For where else do we flee?”

“Come,” he said, grabbing her hand without harm. “We climb higher.”

Up the stairs they went. The rooms grew narrower, the furnishings more and more sparse. At last they were at the top, and Veliana held her breath at the view. There were windows on all sides, and barely enough room for the two of them to stand. She could see for miles in all directions. It felt like the entire tower shifted and swayed with the wind, and she clutched Deathmask for a moment as her fear got the best of her. At his smirk, though, she let go.

“Here is a much better place to kill,” he said.

They stood on either side of the stairs. The first guard to emerge from below died before his head was level with the floor. The second died before he knew the first was dead. The third died when the bodies of the first two exploded in shrapnel of bone and metal. The fourth waited for more guards.

Deathmask rushed from window to window while Veliana hovered over the stairs, her clenched fists eager to deal more death.

“Veliana!” he shouted. “How scared of heights are you?”

“More than of dying,” she shouted back. A cluster of undead had climbed up the stairs, and she repeatedly punched and kicked to topple them back.

“Is that your preference of those two options?”

Veliana glared at him.

“What have you got in mind, fool?”

Deathmask laughed, and without giving her any warning, he grabbed her hand and leapt out the window. So deep was her trust, so ingrained her discipline to follow her guild leader, she did not even hesitate. Out the window she jumped, still hand in hand with the laughing Deathmask.

Dark paladins were the next to arrive, and with flabbergasted looks they glanced around and wondered where the two could have possibly gone.

W hen they landed, and Deathmask let her go, Veliana promptly turned around and slapped him.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” she said.

Deathmask grinned. A large pair of bat-like wings stretched from his back to either side of the houses they were hidden between.

“You don’t like heights?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen you use that spell before,” she said, nodding to the wings.

“I never have,” he said, knowing what she was doing but going along anyway. “Normally the spell creates a pair of arms with claws to help with climbing. I made a tiny change and hoped for the best. And, as you see, we’re still alive.”

She slapped him again.

“Never risk my life on such a wild guess again,” she said.

“It was my life too, you know,” he said, stalking after. But she would hear none of it.