The Shadows of Grace

17

A ntonil walked through the hallways of the castle, feeling as if he walked on clouds. What had been a final, desperate defense had turned into a dominating victory. Instead of funeral songs there were victory chants. It was as if no one realized that the leaders of Karak’s army survived, and that deep inside Veldaren the portal still remained open, pouring out demons.

He turned right at the painting of a large, leafless tree, per the servant’s orders. He had been asleep in his tent among the Neldaren refugees when a young man had approached, giving him directions through the castle and telling him the queen waited. Sure enough, as the hallway suddenly ended, there she was. They were in a walled garden, with a few trees and several rows of flowers. The queen sat on one of the benches, gazing up at the stars.

“It is too early for most of the flowers to be in bloom,” she said at his arrival. “But I still find peace here.”

“The time is late,” Antonil said as he shifted his eyes upward. He realized it wasn’t the stars she looked at, but the twinkling city that floated like some golden land of a child’s fable. Avlimar, Ahaesarus had called it. Their home on Dezrel.

“I know,” said the queen. “But this matter is urgent. The angels want to give chase before the demons can escape back to Neldar. My soldiers are eager to join them.”

“You’ve already pulled in stores of food,” Antonil said. “You could have your army marching within a day. What is the problem?”

“The problem,” Annabelle said, finally lowering her gaze. “The problem is I am too old to go with them. I must remain here, and I must rule. I need someone to command my troops, someone they will respect and admire.”

Antonil blushed. “I am still a foreigner. Many will resent my authority.”

“I know,” the queen said. “That is why I propose a marriage. We will unite the two kingdoms that have split our great land.”

Antonil’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, as if trying to stir up some sense inside his skull.

“I have only met you twice,” he finally said.

Annabelle laughed. “Perhaps Neldar is different, but marriage here is more often political than anything involving love. You would have total authority to lead my soldiers back to Veldaren and reclaim your city. Your country has been decimated. It will take many resources to restore Neldar’s glory, resources you would suddenly have available to you. And don’t worry, Antonil, I am old. My time will not be long, and you can choose a new bride if you desire.”

It made sense to him, but still, the idea seemed so strange. He was still struggling to realize he himself was a king, and the idea of marrying the Queen of Mordan, and taking all its power and wealth into his own hand, well…

“I need to think this over,” he said.

Annabelle plucked a small flower, its petals only beginning to unfurl. She smiled as she put it in his hand and wrapped his fingers about it.

“Time is short. The ceremony will take time, and my soldiers must prepare for their campaign. Please, let me know as soon as you can.”

“I will, your majesty,” Antonil said, bowing. He hurried away, eager to return to his camp. Annabelle watched him go, another young flower twirling in her fingers.

J erico wandered through the bodies, a torch in hand. Lathaar followed, dragging a dead Neldaren soldier. With Jerico’s help, Lathaar tossed it onto a growing pile of dead, a soon-to-be pyre to burn away the enormous amount of corpses. Spread across the field were several other groups of soldiers, all building similar pyres. It would take the whole night, but neither paladin minded much. They wanted time alone to talk, and in the dark field after a battle, they felt isolated and secure.

“Remember the angel I said Ashhur sent to help me kill Darakken?” Lathaar asked as he tilted his head to one side and popped his neck. “That was Judarius. I even had a chance to thank him.”

“Crazy world,” Jerico said, hoisting another rotten body onto the pyre. “And I’d say it just got crazier.”

“The world can only be better by their arrival,” Lathaar said. “Finally, a balancing force for Ashhur. After the fall of the citadel and Veldaren’s destruction, we could use the hope.”

Jerico shifted his torch to his left hand and grabbed the wrist of what looked to be a dead, rotted orc. He grunted when the bone snapped and he stumbled back holding a clump of fingers. He frowned and tossed them onto the pyre.

“Yeah, it looked bleak,” Jerico said. “But you were there among the refugees. You remember their prayers. They were desperate for salvation, hungry for it for the first time in their lives. Now, even those that never prayed, never humbled, cheer as if they won some great victory.”

“Didn’t we?” Lathaar asked.

Before Jerico could answer, they heard shouts from a group further south. The two paladins hurried over, and as they neared they saw bodies of dozens of horses lying twisted and bleeding on the ground. The dead riders were a tangled mass of dark paladins and soldiers of Neldar.

“This is where they met,” Jerico said as they approached.

“What is the matter?” Lathaar asked two men who stood over a body with torches raised high. They were soaked with sweat.

“He’s alive,” one of them said, pointing.

Lathaar drew his swords, and in their light he saw the face of the one they spoke of.

“Leave us,” Lathaar said. “Now.”

The two did as they were told. Lathaar walked closer, and Jerico felt his skin crawl at the soft, maniacal laugh that emanated forth.

“I was hoping it’d be any other than you,” the dark paladin said, choking as he laughed. “Looks like Karak has truly forsaken me.”

Krieger lay on his back, his arms spread wide. His horse lay atop his legs, its weight having crushed his armor inward so everything below his waist was a bloody, broken mess. One of his scimitars lay trapped beneath the horse, the other, just out of reach.

“You’ve always been forsaken,” Lathaar said, his face darkening in the blue-light of his swords. “You just never knew it.”

“I was the stronger,” Krieger said. “I die knowing that.”

“No,” Jerico said, interrupting the two. “You’ll die knowing you lost. You’ll die knowing we lived.”

Before either could react, Jerico shoved Lathaar, tumbling him to the ground away from the trapped dark paladin. As Krieger spat, Jerico grabbed his mace, took a step forward, and swung. He crushed the side of Krieger’s face, broke his neck, and splattered blood about the grass. Jerico shook a bit of the gore off his weapon before clipping it to his belt.

“He was mine to kill!” Lathaar shouted as he stood. “You knew that!”

“Your feud is over,” Jerico said, his voice quiet and firm. “A feud that dragged itself far below the ideals that started it. You wanted to prove yourself, not Ashhur. It’s over.”

Lathaar lowered his weapons, staring at Krieger’s mutilated face and praying for his rage to cease. He almost felt cheated. Three times they had faced off, but never once reaching the finality each of them sought.

“Forgive me,” Lathaar said, sheathing his swords and shaking his head. “Guess that’s why you’re the wiser of us.”

“Just get over here and help me free his body,” Jerico said, tugging on Krieger’s arms. “He’s in here good.”

“Remove his armor,” Lathaar said. “Might be able to slip him out if he weighs less.”

Jerico knelt to one knee, propping Krieger’s body on his shoulder. He winced as blood trickled onto him.

“Got the buckles,” he said, yanking several free. With a shudder he stepped back and let the body hit the ground. Lathaar yanked off Krieger’s breastplate, grunting at how much it weighed. He dropped it aside, where it hit the ground with a thud. As Lathaar caught his breath, he tilted his head and pointed.

“What the Abyss is that?” he asked.

Jerico reached down and yanked on the chain wrapped around Krieger’s neck. Attached was a large pendant. It was charred and scratched, but both had just seen one remarkably similar. Through the damage they saw the faint image of a lion roaring atop a mountain.

“Azariah’s pendant,” Lathaar said.

He reached out and touched it with his bare hand. He screamed. His hand blackened. He fell to his knees, and three times he vomited blood.

“Lathaar!” Jerico shouted, but Lathaar was already fading away, his vision a swirling image of blood, shadow, and chaos.

“L athaar!”

Lathaar opened his eyes, feeling drugged and sleepy.

“What?” he muttered. He tried to roll over, but his body refused to obey.

“Praise Ashhur,” he heard Jerico say. Lathaar ignored him. He was tired, too tired, and from what little his eyes saw he knew it was night. Didn’t Jerico know he needed sleep?

“My chest hurts,” Lathaar said. “Wait until morning.”

“Not a chance,” Jerico said. Lathaar felt hands wrap around his body, and he heard a scream as his weight shifted into Jerico’s arms. He realized moments later the scream was his own. He thought he was on Jerico’s shoulder, and perhaps his feet were dragging, but what was so important?

“Stay with me,” he heard Jerico say as he faded away.

He dreamt of shadows that stretched for miles, filled with teeth and claws that tore into his flesh and broke his bones and bathed in his blood.

“O pen your eyes, paladin.”

Lathaar groaned and refused. Why couldn’t people let him sleep? He listened to what appeared to be a conversation, but it was a strange one, because all the voices sounded the same to him.

“We didn’t know what it was.”

“Nor could you have.”

“Will he survive?”

“The evil within it is strong. Karak held it in his own hands and blessed it.”

“The pendant… it’s the same as yours, isn’t it?”

“The mark of the most high priest, just before the gods’ war. I was Ashhur’s. This pendant here could only belong to one other.”

“Velixar.”

“Leave him alone,” Lathaar said as he heard the name. “You leave… you leave him alone.”

“Lathaar? Wake up, Lathaar, you have to fight this! Fight it!”

He dreamt of a thousand mouths filled with white teeth that shone in the dark, and all of them laughed at him, laughed and laughed as he felt total helplessness and abandonment.

Light pierced the darkness. He felt hope. The mouths ceased their laughing, and instead they wailed in anger.

F or a brief moment, Lathaar thought he had died and gone to the eternity. The walls were gold. The ceiling was marble. He was in a bed, the sheets a brilliant white. Paintings of trees and mountains decorated the room. He started as the large door opened, and in walked an angel.

“You’re awake,” the angel said. “Excellent.”

“Where am I?” Jerico asked.

“Avlimar. You’ve been here for several days under Azariah’s care.”

“What happened to me?” Lathaar asked. He tried to remember, but all he could see in his mind was fire, darkness, and teeth. The clothes on his body were wet with sweat, and as he shifted off the bed he realized his armor was gone. The floor was cold against his bare feet.

“In time,” the angel said. “But first, there are others who would like to see you.”

The angel left, and a moment later Jerico entered the room, a gigantic grin on his face. Tarlak followed, wagging his finger at him.

“No scaring us like that again,” Tarlak said. “Or so help me, I’ll make sure you don’t wake up next time.”

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Jerico said, bear-hugging Lathaar. “I thought we had lost you.”

“I’m too stubborn for that,” Lathaar said. He gently pushed Jerico away, his whole body covered with aches. “And why do I feel like I was run over by a battering ram?”

“That pendant you found,” Tarlak said, plopping down in a golden chair with gigantic red cushions. “That was one doozy of a magical item. Touching it, well, that was like hopping into a volcano to see if the lava’s hot. Suffice to say, you got burned.”

Jerico vanished outside the room and reappeared with a handful of Lathaar’s armor.

“Sorry to hurry you, but you need to put that on,” Jerico said. “Otherwise we might be late for Antonil’s wedding.”

Lathaar paused and raised an eyebrow.

“Care to repeat that?” he asked.

“Antonil and Annabelle are getting married,” Tarlak said. “King and Queen, uniting Mordan and Neldar in a blessed union of political convenience. As for the honeymoon, Antonil’s leading her armies across the nation to take back Veldaren. Romantic, eh?”

“Incredibly,” Lathaar said, pulling on an undershirt. “But what about the pendant?”

“Just get dressed,” Tarlak said. “Wedding now, object of doom later.”

Jerico had wasted away the hours waiting for Lathaar to recuperate by polishing and cleaning both their armor, so when they emerged from Lathaar’s room both gleamed in the light. Tarlak frowned and covered one of his eyes with a hand.

“I’m blind!” he said.

“Quit exaggerating,” Jerico said.

“You’re awake,” said the angel that had helped care for Lathaar. “Good. Follow me. I have several of my brethren ready to fly you back down to Mordeina.”

“Lead the way,” said Tarlak.

They hurried down the hallway. Lathaar walked with his mouth hanging open, mesmerized by the golden walls, the intricately crafted candelabras, and the many paintings of Dezrel. They passed by several windows, and through the glass he saw a stretch of green grass followed by nothing but sky.

“Amazing,” Lathaar said.

“You get used to it,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

They exited two giant doors made of dark stained oak. Three angels waited for them. They bowed at their arrival.

“Welcome,” one of them said. “We are pleased by your recovery, Lathaar. All our hearts have been heavy by word of your illness.”

“And you have my thanks,” Lathaar said, bowing in return and doing his best to appear far healthier than he felt.

“Take our hands,” the angels said. “And try not to panic.”

One after another grabbed the wrists of their charge and rose into the air.

When they landed just inside the city walls, Tarlak whooped and hollered and smacked both paladins on the shoulders.

“We are never doing that again,” Jerico said as he fell to his knees and clutched the grass.

“What, you guys didn’t have fun?” Tarlak asked.

The paladins glared.

“The wedding starts soon,” one of the angels said. “You must hurry. King Antonil has prepared a place of honor for you.”

“About time I started getting some reward for all our hard work,” Tarlak said.

The wedding festival spread from the castle outward throughout the city. Lathaar shook his head as they passed by colored streamers made of cloth and rows and rows of lit candles.

“You’d think there wasn’t a war going on,” he said.

“We won,” Tarlak said, grinning at the paladin. “You think it matters the enemy’s still alive and kicking? Just endure the show. We’ll be chasing after Karak’s pets soon enough.”

Antonil and Annabelle waited atop the stairs before the castle, the hill high enough that most of the city’s inhabitants could look upon them, if not from the streets then from the rooftops of their homes. In what was a switch for the city, a priest of Ashhur, not Karak, led the procession.

“Flank the sides of the stairs,” Tarlak told the paladins. The ceremony was yet to start, and the hum of conversation was strong and constant. Tarlak slipped in beside Harruq and Aurelia, winking at the two of them.

“Nice of you to dress up,” he said to Harruq. “You even wore pants.”

“Keep it up,” Harruq said. “Another crack like that and I’ll make you bald again.”

“Play nice,” Aurelia said, jabbing both with her elbows.

“Did Lathaar make it through all right?” Harruq asked.

Tarlak gestured to where Lathaar and Jerico stood opposite of each other at the foot of the stairs.

“Looks like it,” he said. “Roughed him up pretty bad, but he survived. Let’s hope the same for Antonil. The queen may be old, but I think she can give him a good run.”

“Tarlak!” Aurelia shouted as loud as she dared. Tarlak winced, fully expecting a spell to turn him into a lizard. None came.

“Once this is over,” the elf said, crossing her arms. “You are in deep trouble.”

“Yes, mother,” Tarlak said. Again he winced. No polymorph spell.

Harruq took Aurelia’s hand in his and held her closer as trumpets blared, signaling the start of the wedding.

D eep inside a well-worn mansion seven men gathered wearing gray robes. A fire burned between them in a stone pit, but it gave off no smoke. The seven finished their chant, and the leader among them spoke.

“Our time here is limited,” he said. “And our lives in danger. As we once persecuted priests and paladins of Ashhur, so now are we persecuted. So quickly Mordeina turns her back to our Lord.”

“A reminder,” said one of the seven.

“Yes,” said another. “They need a reminder.”

“Hayden was our greatest, but he will not be our last,” said their leader. “And Karak has spoken to me in dreams. This is still our world’s final moments. Our great prophet remains, spurned and angry. But Karak whispers to me of a second prophet, one we must be wary of. We must be diligent. We must be strong. Above all, we must hold faith.”

“What are we to do?” one asked.

“You said it best,” said the leader. “We give them a reminder.”

“W ith great joy I stand before these two individuals,” Bernard said, his voice carrying far in the silence that had fallen over the crowds. “King and queen of different nations, but coming together in peace and unity. No wounds are too old, no pain too great. Love heals. A simple statement, perhaps, but it is true, and it is powerful.”

Harruq squeezed Aurelia’s hand and leaned over.

“Our wedding didn’t take half this long,” he whispered.

T he seven raised their arms to the ceiling, their hearts throbbing in their chests. Desperate pleas for power poured from their lips. They called for a sign. They called for a message of truth and warning for their city. They called for a revival. The fire flared higher and higher, its strength tied to the strength of their prayers.

“A name,” one of the priests suddenly shouted. “I hear a name!”

The others heard it as well, strong in their ears. Their leader fell to his knees, and he cried out to his god.

“I am unworthy,” he shouted. “Please, pass the burden to another.”

“Take it!” the priests cried. “Take the name offered!”

The fire soared, a brilliant orange and yellow pillar in the gigantic room. Their leader bowed his head and accepted Karak’s will.

“Then let my old name be forgotten,” he said. “Melorak is now my name.”

The other priests cheered, delighted at the long-prophesied arrival of Dezrel’s conqueror. The true Melorak closed his eyes and lifted his palms to the ceiling.

“Let all of Mordan hear our anger,” he said.

T he exchange of rings done, Bernard began the final instruction of the ceremony.

“Each of you holds the love of the other in your heart. Keep it sacred, and keep it close,” he said. “Queen Annabelle, I now pronounce you of the family Copernus. King Antonil, you may…”

He stopped, his skin turning pale and his eyes widening. Whispers spread throughout the crowd.

“Bernard?” Antonil asked.

The ground shook. Wind blew down the streets, random in its swirling. The sky darkened. The rows of angels that surrounded the castle drew their swords as if for battle. Screams of fear and pain pierced the wind as people fled, trampling others too slow to move.

“What’s going on?” Harruq shouted as he clutched Aurelia’s hand and held her close.

“The sky,” Tarlak said. “Damn it all to the Abyss.”

The roar of the lion shook the city. Its sound rumbled through their chests and pierced their hearts. The ground recoiled and broke. People fled to their homes, and the new king and queen hurried to their castle for safety. Those outside looked to the darkened sky, and all who saw it knew what it meant.

Shimmering as if it were made of a thousand red stars, the image of a lion rippled in the air, its eyes angry, its teeth bared, and its claws outstretched. Twice more it roared, cracking walls and rendering the roads broken and uneven.

Harruq watched as a group of angels flew toward the craven image. Azariah led them, his amulet in hand. As one they raised their right hands and shouted out the name of Ashhur. Holy light pulsed about their fingers. The image of the lion shook, its power fading. Again and again the angels prayed, until the wind died, the sky filled with light, and the lion broke apart.

“Just like in Veldaren,” Tarlak said as an uneasy calm settled over the city.

“We have an army to chase,” Harruq said, looking over the wall to the east as Mira and the paladins joined them. “Perhaps now the city will remember that.”

Ahaesarus landed beside them, his beautiful face marred with anger.

“We leave at the rise of the sun,” he said, glaring at where the image had been. “We have waited long enough.”

“Antonil’s army won’t be ready by then,” Tarlak argued.

“Then they can chase after us,” Ahaesarus said. “Prepare your mercenaries, unless you wish to stay behind.”

Tarlak glanced around at his Eschaton, who all nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. “All of us.”

“Good,” said Ahaesarus. “Be ready.”

He flew back to Avlimar, his angels following.

“We’ll be outnumbered,” Mira said when he was gone. “Even with Antonil’s men.”

“So be it,” Tarlak said. “We just fled across an entire continent. For once, I want to be the one giving chase. All of you, prepare your things. We’re leaving at dawn.”

The Eschaton did as they were told. Their resting was done. They had a war to fight.