The Death of Promises

6

W hen Jerico neared the fireplace, he remembered Keziel’s request.

“Book, huh?” he said, glancing about the room. He saw nothing, so he assumed it hidden. What the book could be, he didn’t know. Given the power of the two intruders, it most likely was not some mundane object.

The clacking sounds of approaching undead jarred him from his thoughts. The sharp turn into the room was his best strategic point so he sprinted for it, his shield leading. He didn’t even slow when the first undead turned the corner. His shield flared as he crushed three skeletons against the wall, their bones almost melting to its touch. Jerico spun, swinging Bonebreaker in a wide arc. It shattered the spine of the closest undead, then hooked upward to knock off the head of a second.

A swift kick and he was off the wall and back into the room with the fireplace. More undead came, but he smashed them one after another. They wielded no weapons or armor, and against the magic of his mace they could not withstand him. Bodies began to pile at his feet, and he used this to his advantage. He took a step back, and when an undead stumbled over the pile, he lunged forward and smashed it with his shield. The pile grew larger.

“Sing, song, sing a song if you have a song to sing,” he heard Tessanna call as she approached. The paladin shook his head, trying to shake the fear of her from his mind. He had fought casters before, powerful ones even. She was no different.

“But when you sing a song until its done, the song sings no more.”

Tessanna turned the corner.

Bonebreaker smashed the side of her face. Her skull cracked against the wall. The girl slumped against it, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. Her cheek was cut and mangled. Her black eyes stared at him, frozen in surprise, as a trail of blood painted the wall.

“Tessanna!” Qurrah shouted.

A whip snaked around the corner, wrapping around his wrist before bursting into flame. The metal of his gauntlets glowed red, and Jerico screamed as the fire burned his flesh. He twisted his wrist, dropped Bonebreaker, and then madly flailed at the buckles. Just as a strong tug came from the whip he flicked it free. The gauntlet flew around the corner, taken by the whip. Jerico reached for his weapon with his bare hand, but changed his mind when the whip lashed the ground beside it. Unsure, the paladin took a few steps back, his mind racing.

He looked at the girl still slumped against the wall before his pile of undead. He thought she breathed, but the wound on her head was horrendous. Her left eye was covered with blood, even the iris filled with burst veins. He could see her teeth through the tear in her flesh. Her cheekbones were a shattered mess.

“Celestia’s going to be mad at me,” he said before breaking into nervous laughter. The whole while he backed away from her body. He had his shield, and in many ways he could still use it as a weapon, but would it be enough? When Qurrah walked around the corner, and he saw the rage in the half-orc’s eyes, he knew it wouldn’t. Not even close.

“You,” Qurrah said, his entire body quivering with anger. “You dared scar her face.” He lashed his whip against Jerico’s shield. “You’re a greater fool than I imagined.”

“Never claimed to be the smart one,” the paladin said, taking another step back. There was just enough room to get some momentum before reaching the necromancer. Perhaps if he charged…

Qurrah gave him no time. A bolt of pure shadow flew from his hands, crackling with energy. Jerico braced his legs and let his shield take the blow. The power of it jarred his shoulder, and his elbow screamed in pain. Another bolt hit, then another. He had taken so many spells with his shield, and while the holy enchanted metal bore no mark, his own flesh was another matter. His entire left side turned numb as the shadow power slammed against him. He staggered back, collapsing against the wall. Behind him, the heat of a fire warmed his legs, alerting him to its presence.

“You are weak flesh and bone,” Qurrah said, lashing out with his whip. “Do you know why you still stand? Let me show you.”

Spidery words left Qurrah’s lips. A fleeting image of white mist rising from his armor graced Jerico’s eyes.

“You were blessed with strength not your own,” Qurrah said. “Do you feel it now, how strong you truly are?”

A lash of the whip knocked his shield an inch to the side, exposing his face. The whip curled back and then lashed inward, burning his already bleeding cheek. The paladin cried out, his balance fading. He tried to raise his shield, knew his life was exposed, but his arm refused to cooperate. As he collapsed before the fire, he heard the half-orc speak.

“ Hemorrhage. ”

He felt the rupture just above his wrist. Blood exploded out of it, splattering across his face and chest. Dizziness claimed his mind, that which was not occupied with his screaming. Qurrah came and stepped upon his bleeding wrist, his heel grinding into the agony.

“Listen to me, and listen carefully,” the half-orc said, his voice quiet and cruel. “You have scarred my beautiful lover. You will make amends.”

“And if I don’t?” Jerico asked in between labored breaths. Qurrah placed his knee on Jerico’s other shoulder and knelt down so his face was inches from the paladin’s.

“I will slaughter every single priest hiding in this building. It will be slow, and it will be painful. If you heal her, I will spare their lives.”

“Either way, you’ll kill me afterward,” Jerico said. “How can I trust you not to lie?”

Qurrah stood, grinding his heel in semicircles.

“You sacrifice your life in the hope to save others. Is that not how your order works? Does it matter if I follow my word, if you do all in your power to save the innocents that cower in fear of me?”

The paladin nodded, trying to ignore the horrible pain spiking up his arm. Qurrah walked to where Tessanna lay. Slowly Jerico stood, keenly aware of the black energy sparkling on Qurrah’s fingertips. Any false move and he would die.

“She is Celestia’s daughter,” Jerico said as he took an uneven step toward her. “Perhaps Ashhur won’t be too upset if I heal her.”

“Quit speaking nonsense and do your duty,” Qurrah said, though his eyes had narrowed at the mention of the elven goddess. He watched as Jerico knelt and pressed the palm of his shaking hand against the wound he himself had created.

“Daddy?” she asked, her eyes closed and her voice drowsy.

“Shush, Tess,” Qurrah said.

“You hurt me again, didn’t you daddy?”

“Ashhur, forgive me if what I ask is wrong, but give me the strength to do what must be done,” Jerico prayed. Healing light surrounded his hands, pulsing unsteadily. Tessanna moaned as it poured into her flesh. Her broken bones snapped together. Her torn skin pulled tight. She let out a gasp as dizzying waves filled her head.

“Be healed,” Jerico told her as he removed his hand. Both men observed his work. The shape of her jaw was back to normal. Amid the drying blood ran a single scar from ear to chin. When she opened her eyes, even the burst vessels had closed.

“Good man,” Qurrah said. He waved his hand. A wall of energy slammed into the paladin, throwing him across the room. He collapsed in a heap of armor and muscle. The half-orc knelt beside his lover, his pale hand slowly tracing the scar.

“How do you feel?” he asked her. The girl looked up at him and smiled.

“I feel awful. I dreamt my daddy hit me. Did he?”

“No,” Qurrah said, kissing her lips. “Just a dream. You’re fine now.”

The paladin rolled to his side, eyeing a door a few feet to his right. Beyond it was the deepest parts of the Sanctuary where the clerics of Ashhur had hid. If he could reach them… He tried to stand, but his entire arm remained numb. He could see blood pooling underneath his body. He would die if he lost too much more. The wound needed closed, and he lacked the strength to do it.

With his good arm he pushed, grinding his teeth to focus against the pain. He stood.

“Where are you going?” Qurrah asked, sounding amused.

“Forgive my rudeness,” Jerico said, touching his shield with his other hand. “But I should go.”

The light from his shield flared a brilliant white, blinding the half-orc. He shielded his eyes with his arm, but it did no good. When the light ended, the door was open and the paladin was gone. Qurrah stood to chase but Tessanna grabbed his ankle.

“No,” she said. “Let him go. Take what we came here for.”

Qurrah rubbed the tears from his eyes, blinked a few times, and then accepted the girl’s request.

“Very well. The book is very close, hidden where…”

He stopped when he saw the burning fire. A smile crossed his face.

“Clever,” he said. “Very, very clever.”

A wave of his hand scattered the logs. They rolled across the floor, spilling ash as their flame died. Qurrah reached into the black pile where the fire had been, ignoring the heat that burned his fingers. Deep within the ash he felt it. Excitement sparked inside his heart. With a cry of victory, he tore the tome free.

“The fire?” Tessanna asked.

“The book is impervious to it,” he explained, wiping ash off with his blistered fingers. “Otherwise the priests would have burned it themselves.” He stared at his treasure. It was large, but that seemed its only special quality. The bindings were plain leather, with a strap connected to an iron buckle to keep the pages closed. But within…

“Let’s go,” he said, offering his hand to Tessanna, who took it and used his strength to stand. “I must begin reading the pages. So many mysteries inside…”

Tessanna kissed him on the cheek.

“Go on without me,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

Qurrah, so enamored with his prize, nodded and let her go. Through the door she went, heading after the fleeing paladin.

J ust your wrist,” Jerico muttered as he staggered down the hallway. “You’ve been stabbed how many times, and you’re going to…going to bite it from a silly wrist cut?” Silly or not, he could see the veins pulsing in his arm, and the blood pouring from the grievous wound. He kept his left hand clamped just above the wound. If he had the time, he would have asked Ashhur for the power to heal it, but he dared not stop his frantic running.

The walls abruptly changed from wood to stone. The hallway turned a sharp left before descending five feet of stairs. Jerico, staggering along as he was, did not notice the change. His foot hit air where stone should have been, and then he was falling headfirst. He had a brief moment to swear a multitude of punishments against Lathaar before his head cracked against the cold stone at the bottom, knocking him out cold.

Tessanna found him there, his arms and legs sprawled about and his head atop a pool of blood. Not far from the bottom of the stairs was a solid wooden door, barred from the inside. The clerics hid within, she knew. She could smell their fear.

“So close, yet none dare come to your aid,” she said, kneeling beside his unconscious form. “Did they hear you come? Do they know it is you here?” She took his bleeding wrist in her hand and blew across it. Fire burned within her breath, sealing the wound. Finished, she smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Qurrah didn’t tell me, but you fixed my face,” she whispered into his ear. “But you also broke it. You’ve left me a scar, paladin, so I shall leave you scarred as well.” She kissed his face, her tongue flicking against his skin. As she pulled back her lips her tongue remained. The flesh underneath it blackened and burned under its touch. She ran her tongue across his face, so that a long black line marred him from ear to cheek.

“My scar will fade in time,” she whispered. “They always do. Will yours?” She kissed him on the lips, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. It did not burn him. The girl sighed as she tasted blood. Reluctantly, she pulled back and climbed the stairs.

“May we meet again,” she said, then glanced at the sealed door, all life draining from her face. “Your champion is dying at your door,” she shouted. “Are you so cowardly you will hide within while he perishes?”

She turned and left, not caring if they emerged.

Qurrah was waiting for her at the entrance to the Sanctuary.

“Is he dead?” he asked her. Tessanna glanced at him, and then at the book he carried.

“Does it matter?” she asked.

“No,” Qurrah said. “I guess it doesn’t.”

They left as the last few undead under their command collapsed into lifeless piles of bone, flesh, and rot.

T he Stonewood Forest was a thoroughly unwelcoming sight. The trees were black as coal, and stubborn against any fire. The branches stretched high, interlocking into a thick canopy above. Lathaar knew that come nightfall not even the stars could penetrate the thick blanket of leaves. Deep within the forest loomed Elfspire, which had once been the tallest of the nearby mountains. Now it was a cracked and broken sight, rent in two by the release of the demon, Darakken. Much of the Stonewood Forest had been destroyed in the ensuing battle. The outer edges remained, and it was there Lathaar hoped Mira waited.

He dismounted upon reaching the forest’s edge. He had ridden as fast and as far as he dared, and he was proud of his mount. “Go rest,” he told her, patting her neck. The horse neighed and then trotted away, wanting no part of the forest. The paladin drew his sword and held it before him.

“Mira?” he asked, his eyes closed. “Mira, can you hear me?”

Lathaar?

“I’m here, just outside the forest,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

He’s been waiting, don’t come, don’t…Lathaar!

Her voice silenced in his mind. What Keziel had told him haunted his thoughts. “Every daughter of balance has died horribly,” the Priest had said. “They are not meant long for this world.”

“Survive a little longer, Mira,” Lathaar said, cutting away the first of many branches in his path. “Not you, not yet.”

He had six hours before dark. He could make it if he hurried.

S illy girl,” the big man said, his plated boot still resting atop of Mira’s head. “I can tell when you’re talking to him. Right outside this forest, is he?” The man tossed another log onto their fire. They were outside Mira’s meager home, which was a small hut built around the top branches of a tree. There appeared to be no markers or paths leading to where they were, but that didn’t worry him. He knew Lathaar well, and he knew that he would do all he could to arrive before the sun fell below the mountains.

“He beat you,” Mira said. Her voice was slurred as if she were drugged. She lay just inches from the fire, her hands tied behind her back with a barbed piece of metal. The man laughed, the sneer on his face vile.

“Did he? He never even drew blood, dear girl, so I’d hardly call that a loss.”

He tapped his fingers against the sides of her face, pointedly reminding her of the tongue trap he had placed within her mouth. It was made of two pieces of metal. One lay horizontal, and was split in the middle so that her tongue could be pulled through. Its interior was lined with sharp teeth. The ends of the piece were two sharp spikes that dug into the sides of her cheeks. A second strip of metal wrapped around the first, the lower end designed to shred her tongue’s sensitive underbelly while simultaneously digging into the bottom of her mouth. The other end ran to the back of her throat, where another spike jutted upward so any motion would cause her to gag on her own blood.

“You’ve been a good girl,” he said, crushing the sides of her face with his hands. Mira held in her cries best she could, knowing they would only make it worse. The man tilted her head down so all the blood poured from the small, constant hole in her lips the contraption created. “You’ve behaved, but Lathaar’s going to be here soon.” He drew out a long piece of wire and held it in front of her face.

“See the edges?” he asked her. Mira nodded, having quickly learned it best to humor the man. He gently ran his finger across it, then showed her the drop of blood it had drawn. “Incredibly sharp, with lots and lots of teeth. You haven’t tried casting any spells to escape, not after that first one.”

He chuckled as he traced his bleeding finger along the bloody scar on Mira’s abdomen.

“But you might get brave when your friend shows up. I’m going to wrap this around your fingers. It’ll cut you, but keep your hands still and the pain should go away. Try to wiggle a finger or two, well…”

He jammed the wire inside her lower lip and jerked. Mira did her best to choke down her scream lest the contraption within her mouth tear her tongue to pieces. Blood poured down her neck, the pain throbbing with each beat of her heart. The man looped the wire around her fingers, a bizarre mesh that burned like fire. Even worse, her hands were beginning to shake against her will. She had eaten too little and lost too much blood over the past week. The fire on her hands burned brighter.

“Pass out if you want,” the man said, smiling in satisfaction at his handiwork. “The false paladin has awhile to go before he arrives. I’m sure you’ll be awake by then.”

The girl projected a single thought across the forest before she collapsed. Lathaar felt his entire chest tighten as the words struck his mind.

Kill me.

A s Lathaar neared Mira’s home, he grew more and more certain of who had taken her. Few people knew of the girl’s existence, and fewer still possessed the power to capture and torture her without being destroyed. The vile presence permeating the forest from her direction only confirmed his belief.

“Be with me,” he prayed as he walked. “Keep her safe, and give me the strength to fight, to win.”

He would need every prayer, every aid of Ashhur. Krieger had come to finish their duel. He approached her home without any worry of ambush. The dark paladin had a sense of honor about him, and burying a sword in his back would prove nothing. And that’s what it was all about. Proof of faith.

All the trees surrounding Mira’s home had been cleared years ago, allowing plenty of space to train, live, and play. Only a sliver of the sun peeked over the mountains when Lathaar arrived, flooding the area with shadows and thick beams of orange. Mira lay beside a giant bonfire, her green dress torn and covered with bloodstains. Standing over her, his foot atop her face, was Krieger.

“Greetings, oh great and powerful Lathaar,” he said, bowing with all his weight atop of Mira. “You almost disappointed me. Nightfall is much closer than I anticipated. I’d hate to have an unfair advantage.”

Krieger was a giant man, the sides of his face lined with scars. Without them, he might have been handsome. His long blond hair he had tied into a short ponytail behind his head. The bones of his face were sharp, so when he sneered his lips pulled back across his teeth. As he flashed his feral grin he pressed his foot down harder.

Lathaar drew his swords, horrified by the blood that poured out of Mira’s mouth.

“She has done you no wrong,” he said.

“That’s why I had so much fun,” Krieger replied, drawing his own swords. They were twin sabers, each fully consumed by black fire. He twirled them once in the air while he stared at the other paladin’s weapons. “You’ve managed to keep your faith this time. Excellent. I would hate to be bored.”

“I will kill you,” Lathaar said. “You deserve no better.”

“And Darakken is dead,” Krieger continued, as if he had not heard a word. He paced around Mira’s body. The girl made no movements. Lathaar could sense the dwindling life within her, like a dying fire in need of wood. He could heal her, if given the time.

“Dead, which is an impressive feat,” Krieger continued. “You’ve grown much stronger, Lathaar, last paladin of a false god. Finally worthy.”

“You have no idea,” Lathaar said. “Elholad!”

Both his weapons flared with brilliant white light, and their weight nothing in his hands. He expected surprise, or worry, from the dark paladin, but instead he laughed.

“Karak tan my hide and burn me forever, you’ve even attained the holiest of blades. Ashhur must like you…or he has no choice, with all his followers dead and rotting.”

He gestured around like a grand performer before an audience.

“This is our stage! This is our arena! I will prove the weakness of your god by slaughtering the last life that still clings to him like a frightened babe.”

Lathaar smashed his blades together, remembering his one weapon of surprise he still carried.

“You’re wrong, Krieger,” he said, tensing his legs for an attack. “I’m not the last.”

Krieger paused, his entire act halted, and that was all Lathaar needed. He lunged, his blades thrusting together in a sheer beam of white. When the black scimitars parried, they showered sparks across the grass. The contact was a test of their faith, and it was Lathaar’s that was the stronger. Krieger’s swords recoiled. Desperate, the dark paladin twisted backward, the light of the blades mere inches from his armor. The closest parts sizzled and faded gray.

The dark paladin continued his twist while lashing out with his right hand. Lathaar ducked under the attack, then slashed with his longsword. It cut through Krieger’s armor as if it were cloth. A shallow cut in his side poured blood. The man showed no pain. Instead, he laughed and laughed.

“Another!” he cried even as he retreated again and again from Lathaar’s attacks. “Karak be praised, I have another to slaughter, to test and torment. His name, paladin, tell me his name!”

“Jerico,” Lathaar said. “And you won’t live to meet him. It is my faith that is stronger. Your swords cannot withstand my own.”

Krieger halted with his back against the giant tree in the center of the clearing. His grin was maniacal, his eyes, heartless.

“The false order of Ashhur has fallen,” he said. “Chaos has filled the void, and from that chaos true order will come. Your faith is stronger, Lathaar, but your god is still a failed god. You have no idea how strong my faith is.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Lathaar said.

“Give me time,” Krieger said. “Felhelad!”

He slammed his scimitars together, and at their contact they burst into giant blades of pure shadow and fire. The fading sunlight sucked into the swords, darkening the entire clearing. The dark paladin grinned at Lathaar’s stunned look.

“Our gods are brothers!” he shouted. “Did you think one would have a toy the other would not?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lathaar said, narrowing his eyes and preparing for combat.

“But it does,” Krieger mocked. “The great and powerful Lathaar…still not as special as he wishes to be. Not as strong. This is the duel I’ve sought all my life. This is the fight. Don’t disappoint me, Lathaar.” He held up his fist and showed a glowing orange jewel encrusted into his gauntlet. “A similar jewel is inside Mira’s mouth. With a thought, I can activate its magic, splattering both of us with her brains. Kill me or I kill her.”

Lathaar readied his swords.

“So be it.”

M ira’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of battle. Her entire mouth ached. Her tongue was swollen from all the cuts, causing the sensitive flesh to press harder against the ridges of the device. Even breathing caused her pain. She did her best to ignore it, for Lathaar had arrived. He had his swords drawn, and they shone with the light of the Elholad. Krieger was there too, his own black blades pulsing with power. She tilted her head just a little so she could better watch their duel.

The two charged, and in the twilight their god-blessed blades met. Lightning crackled at their touch. Both opponents glared at the other, their hatred open and growing. Krieger took the offensive first, alternating attacks with his left and right hand. Lathaar blocked each one, not bothering to parry. They wanted to test their strength. Each time their swords made contact their faith fought. Mira knew Krieger’s bordered on fanatical. He would not falter, and he would not repent. Lathaar however…she had seen him doubt. She had seen him lose his faith.

Stay strong, she said in her mind. She wanted to project the thought to Lathaar but she dared not interrupt his concentration. Please, Lathaar, stay strong for me.

Lathaar knocked aside a dual thrust by the dark paladin, then stabbed with his short sword. Krieger leapt back, slammed his foot against the tree behind him, then kicked forward. The two collided in a flashing explosion, sparks covering both their bodies. A glowing blade tore another cut across the front of Krieger’s black armor. In return, a burning scimitar gashed the inner part of Lathaar’s arm. The blood sizzled atop their weapons.

Mira knew them evenly matched. Neither would dare turn their attention to her, or the knife-edge they fought upon would balance toward the other. If she was to escape, now was the time. Slowly she opened her mouth as wide as it could go. The spikes tore into the sides of her cheeks, but at least she could no longer feel the edges pressed into the roof of her mouth and the upper part of her jaw. She took a breath, and then another. The spell she had in mind would require no movements of her hands, just the verbal components. She doubted she could pronounce them with her swollen tongue, but she had to try.

“Kel.” The first part came easy, just a hard sound from the back of her throat. The tiny tilt of her tongue for the ‘el’ filled her mouth with pain.

“Lak.”

Again the ridges tore into her tongue, but she could manage. She took a deep breath. The next syllable…

Vral was what she meant to say, but when she closed her mouth the piece attached to the back of her tongue gagged her. The involuntary wretches reopened the many wounds in her mouth. She wanted to vomit but knew it would destroy what remained of her tongue. Blood poured down her lips and across her chest. The pain was horrible. With blurred vision, she watched the two paladins. They seemed like statues locked in battle and bathed in light and fire. The hair on her neck stood as she wondered if Ashhur and Karak were watching, channeling their power into their champions to fight their petty brothers’ feud.

Anger stirred in her breast. She would defy them. She would deny them their game, regardless of the cost.

“Kel,” she whispered.

S o how did this Jerico survive?” Krieger asked. They had fought for several minutes, and still his breathing had not turned heavy. “Did he cower in some hole as the rest of his brethren were slaughtered?”

“Cowering in holes never works,” Lathaar said. “That’s where your kind breeds.”

The dark paladin slashed twice with his main hand, then curved a thrust low with his other. Lathaar blocked the first two, then parried the third away with his short sword. Krieger snarled, closing the distance between them while jamming both his blades at Lathaar’s stomach.

“Have you forgotten where I first found you?” Krieger asked as their weapons clashed once more. “Cowering in a pathetic inn among beggars and drunkards and the lowliest of the low?”

“That just proves my point,” Lathaar said, shoving the dark paladin away.

“Your faith was nothing then,” Krieger said. “You think you can stand against me now?”

“My faith has been tested,” Lathaar said. “Has yours?”

“Trust me,” he answered, putting one foot forward while rearing back with his blades. “Seeing you alive tests me greatly.”

Krieger struck with all his strength, a mammoth blow of unholy power. Lathaar crossed his swords and met them, determined to prove his own faith. Thunder crackled between them as the blades connected. The clearing had turned dark, and in that twilight the glow of Lathaar’s swords fought against the sucking, greedy blackness of Krieger’s fire. Regular steel would have shattered, but neither possessed regular weapons. They bore the weapons of their gods. Flesh, bone, and will would break first. Each paladin fought on, determined that it would be the other that felt his earthly body fail.

M ira took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind. Four times she had tried, but an involuntary gag or a shaking of her swollen tongue ruined each incantation. Through blurry eyes she watched the paladins. They were nothing but their swords now to her, black and white, healing and hurting.

“Kel,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Lak. Vr…” The spike pressed against the back of her throat, tearing, but she had to ignore it. She forced the syllable out, no longer caring the damage that might result.

“Vral,” she said, feeling the magical power beginning to flow from her body. One more syllable. Just one. Blood trickled down the back of her throat, but she swallowed it. Too much hesitation and the magic would leave her. Now or never, she thought. Now or never.

“Den,” she gagged. Kellak Vralden. Shadow mist. Her flesh drained of all color, becoming a shifting form of gray smoke. The wire and rope surrounding her hands fell through her body, as did the awful contraption within her mouth. The metal plummeted down her throat and to the ground, a horrific sight of blood and torn skin. Attached to it was a small yellow gem that glowed bright in the growing darkness. Her body returned to flesh. Mira coughed and gagged, relieved beyond all description to have her mouth free of the device.

“Clever,” she said, recognizing the yellow gem for what it was. She immediately regretted speaking. Her tongue was still swollen and sore. All she could taste was blood. Her fingers were a swollen mess, but nothing compared to her mouth. Krieger had been far more worried about what spells she might cast verbally. He had assumed removing semantic components would be far easier with her bound by rope and wire. For the most part, he had been right. But now she was free…

She pulled the gem from the device and rolled it in her hands. Neither combatant knew her free, focused as they were on their fight. That would end.

“No more games,” she whispered. “No more fights. This torture is over.”

She said a word of magic and then hurled the gem with all her might.

H e was starting to slip. His strength, while great, was not enough. The light around the two swords faded, only a little, but it was visible to both, and both knew what it meant. Lathaar was about to break.

“Is this it, coward?” the dark paladin cried, ramming even harder against Lathaar’s defenses. He slammed down with his swords, again and again. The weapons crackled, now the only light underneath the canopy of leaves. “I would prove my strength, but you prove your weakness!”

Lathaar wanted to say something, to counter with his own words, but his arms could no longer bear the weight. The twin scimitars came slashing in, the black fire surrounding them as strong as ever. He blocked, but his arms shrieked against the weight. The power from the blow knocked him from his feet. His short sword fell from his grip. darkness enveloped it as it left Lathaar’s touch. The other faded in much of its brightness, no longer an Elholad. His faith was still strong, but Lathaar’s will had been weakened and his resolve shaken. He no longer felt certain he could win, and in their fight, that was all that mattered. Krieger saw this and knew. He held his weapons high, gloating in their darkness. The gems on his gauntlets flared.

“I want you to know,” he said. “I want you to see just how much Ashhur has abandoned this world.”

He pressed the yellow gem beside his third knuckle. As the magic enacted, and he looked to where Mira had lain, he saw her resting against the tree in the center, pure hatred on her face.

“Boom,” she mouthed to him as the gem attached to the small of his back detonated. Krieger howled as fire exploded around his waist. His armor twisted and shrieked amid the blast. The force took his legs out from under him, and in the air he spun and fell. Blood pooled underneath his body. He tried to move, but his legs felt strange and foreign to him.

Lathaar gave him no reprieve. He took to his feet and ran, his sword ready.

“You were beaten,” Krieger spat as the other paladin hovered over him, his blade poised for a killing blow.

“But I wasn’t abandoned,” he said.

“Nothing’s fair,” Krieger said. “Nothing’s right. But your death will be.”

He slammed his right hand against the dirt, breaking a hollow jewel atop his gauntlet. Lathaar thrust his blade deep into the earth below, but it was too late. Krieger vanished in a puff of smoke and shadow, the sword passing harmlessly through the after-image of his body. Furious, Lathaar pulled free his weapon and kicked at the dirt.

“Coward!” he shouted.

“Lathaar,” Mira said, still resting against the tree. “I need you, please.”

She slumped against its base, laid her head against the bark, and then smiled at him.

“I stopped the game,” she said. “I stopped…”

By the time Lathaar reached her, she had closed her eyes and fallen into a much needed sleep.

K rieger reappeared deep within the forest. From a pouch on his side he drew out a silver-blue vial and drank its contents, then broke the vial on a root beside him.

“That damn sorceress,” he said between grunts of pain. He could feel his legs again, that was good. “I proved you weaker,” he continued. “I was the stronger! I proved, I proved…Karak is the true god, you wretch!”

He fell back, his hands clasped around his waist. It would take months before he was back at full fighting shape. But the girl was free, and with her at Lathaar’s side there was no way for him to fight a fair duel.

“Because of her, you think you are not abandoned,” he seethed. “Because of her, you think your god saved you. You cannot win by your own strength so you coddle to others and act as if they were divine intervention.” He sheathed his swords and struggled to his feet. His legs were uncooperative, and he walked as if he were incredibly drunk. At least they did work, however poorly. If his back had been broken, no amount of potion would have saved him.

“Come to me, Demonwail,” he said, rubbing a red ruby on his gauntlet. Black smoke pooled at his feet, growing thicker and thicker while taking the shape of a demonic steed. The creature neighed in greeting, its hooves fire, its eyes shimmering ash. Krieger cast aside the broken pieces of his armor, knowing the weight would only slow him down. He used all the strength in his upper body to mount the creature, gasping in air at the pain it caused.

“Ride on,” he told Demonwail. “Out of the forest. We ride to Karak’s hand.”