The Shadows of Grace

18

T he three of them huddled before a fire, feeling isolated amid the remnants of the demon army. Qurrah seethed in silence, pondering Harruq’s eyes and the glow of his swords. He went over their battle again and again. At no point had his brother tried to score a killing blow. He had struck with the hilt of his swords, or at his legs and hands. Compared to their previous battle after Aullienna’s death, the whole ordeal seemed tame. Qurrah was baffled.

“What do we do now?” Tessanna asked, disrupting his thoughts.

“We rebuild,” Velixar said. His arms were crossed, and he bent toward the fire as if he were ready to plunge his face into the embers. “We cannot collapse now, not so close to victory.”

“The demons have already replenished their numbers,” Qurrah said. “I feel the strain of their passing with every breath I take.”

“As do I,” Velixar said. “But we must endure.”

“It’s been months since we first opened the portal,” Qurrah said, rubbing his temples. “I am flesh and bone, Velixar. I will break soon, as will you.”

“I am not weak,” Velixar said, his eyes looking up from the fire. For a moment they flared a bright red, a bit of his old self reemerging.

“Neither of you are weak,” Tessanna said. She curled her knees to her chest and hid her face behind her arms. “But you’re dying. You can’t do this forever. But they want more from you, and they’ll keep taking and taking until you can’t stand, can’t fight, can’t do anything…”

They hushed as Ulamn approached. He had taken off his helmet, and if not for the darkness of his eyes and the multitude of scars on his face, he could have passed as one of the angels they had just fought.

“We will fly for much of the distance,” Ulamn said. “Uncomfortable as it may be for you, we will travel much faster that way. Ashhur’s angels will give chase, and we cannot fight them, not until we reinforce our numbers from Veldaren.”

“What of my priests, my paladins?” Velixar asked.

“They have forsaken you,” Ulamn said. “You know this as well as I. You both are too important to leave our side. You stay with us. If we’re lucky, your disloyal brethren will buy us time. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow will be long.”

He bowed and left. Velixar shook his head, and his features shifted between sadness and anger.

“So many good paladins,” he said. “So many faithful. I will make them pay. All of them.”

Qurrah grabbed Tessanna’s elbow and stood.

“We must rest,” he said. Velixar dismissed them with a wave, not watching them go. They hurried away. Qurrah wasn’t ready for sleep, but he couldn’t stand seeing Velixar in such a state.

“He vows revenge,” Tessanna said, echoing his thoughts. “But what strength does he have to keep such a promise?”

“He doesn’t,” Qurrah said. “And neither do I.”

Tessanna kissed her lover’s cheek, but her comfort was hollow. Never before had she hated Karak as much as she did then.

T arlak slipped inside the room, trying not to make any noise.

“I’m awake,” Haern said from his bed, his eyes still closed. “And beaten or not, my ears still work.”

They were in a dark, windowless infirmary within the castle. There were many beds, but only Haern, with so many bones broken and shattered, remained.

“We’re giving chase,” Tarlak said, sitting on the bed. “About an hour from now. Antonil’s army will follow in a day or two.”

“I should go with you,” Haern said, frowning.

“You’re damn lucky to even be alive,” Tarlak said. “Trying to travel so soon will kill you.”

“You leave to banish a demonic army from our world, and you expect me to stay and hope for the best?” Haern asked.

The wizard gently squeezed the assassin’s shoulder.

“I expect you to get better,” he said, his point made clear by the pain flashing over Haern’s face. “You want to chase after us in a few weeks, you go right ahead. I hope we have a victory party waiting for you in Veldaren.”

Haern sat up enough to hug Tarlak goodbye, then collapsed back onto the bed.

“Tarlak?” Haern said, right before he left.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” Haern said. “For how I’ve been.”

“Apology accepted,” Tarlak said, winking. “See you in the months ahead.”

He left. Haern tried to sit up, tried to ignore the pain flaring throughout his body. He couldn’t, and he crashed back onto the bed, groaning and covered with sweat.

W ith much fanfare the angels departed, hundreds and hundreds of winged soldiers in perfect formations. The Eschaton rode in the arms of the angels, their weight seemingly nothing to their powerful white wings. They flew east in pursuit of the demons.

Antonil watched them go from the outer wall, scratching at his chin as he did.

“Itching to go with them?” his old general Sergan asked. “Can’t say I blame you.”

“I just led thousands of refugees across the continent,” Antonil said. “And now I am to travel back with an army at my command. To think, I always thought King Vaelor had it easy.”

“He did have it easy,” Sergan said. He plopped his ax to the stone and leaned on its hilt, staring after the rapidly fading army. “He sat on his throne, issued paranoid edicts, and expected respect without earning it. You, however, have led your people as needed, fought beside them, bled with them, and gave everything you had. A good king, that’s what I see.”

“And if we fail?” Antonil asked, turning toward his trusted friend. “And if I lead so many to their deaths, and return to Mordeina with her army broken, her food spent, and the whole world lost to fire?”

Sergan laughed. “You worry too much. A few days ago we thought we were all doomed. Now you’re king and Ashhur’s given us an army. I may not be a religious man, but I know a time for faith when I see it.”

Antonil chuckled. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

“Of course I am.” He picked up his ax and hefted it over his shoulder. “Now, if it pleases your highness, I would like to start inspecting our newly granted troops.”

“Go easy on them,” Antonil said. “At least until they accept orders from a man of Neldar. I’d hate to see you strung up before we leave.”

“They can try,” Sergan said as he climbed down the ladder. “But try is as far as they’d get.”

T he next day, Antonil knelt before his queen, accepting her public blessing. Rows and rows of soldiers filled the streets. Wagons spotted the fields surrounding the city, filled with provisions for the army. The weather was warm, the sky clear, and the sun bright.

“Don’t try to come back a hero,” Annabelle said to Antonil as she kissed his forehead. “You already are one. Just come back alive.”

“I’ll do my best, milady,” Antonil said. He stood, drew his sword, and shouted an order. The soldiers turned, crying out the name of their beloved city. Toward the gates they marched. Women and children lined the edges of the street, shouting goodbyes to their fathers, friends, and husbands. Annabelle remembered a similar ceremony, when her then husband had sent the might of Mordan after the Dezren elves, banishing them from their kingdom.

Unable to watch, she returned to her castle. Her footsteps echoed in the empty chamber. As she sat on her throne, feeling old and empty, a man stepped from behind a pillar and bowed low.

“Greetings, your majesty,” he said, his mismatched eyes glinting.

The queen held in her startled cry.

“Perhaps you are unaware of who I am,” he said, pacing before her. “But I’m sure you know what I’ve done. My name is Deathmask, and I come with my guild. It is we who stopped Bernard’s wrongful execution. And as for the assault on Karak’s priests, well, consider me a fortune teller, carrying out your orders before you even gave them.”

Annabelle’s pulse quickened as three more stepped out from behind pillars. Two of them were twins, while the third was a beautiful girl with a wicked scar over one eye. They all held daggers and watched for guards as they approached.

“Killing me gains you nothing,” she said, trying to sound brave.

“We’re not here to kill you,” Deathmask said, and he chuckled as if the mere thought were absurd. “Although your bounty on our heads is making life difficult. We’re here to discuss that little issue.”

“I will not cower before threats,” she said. “I still have soldiers at my disposal.”

“Threats?” Deathmask asked. “I bring no threats. I come with a deal. Tell me, your highness, how many priests of Karak have your guards killed since your order?”

Queen Annabelle tilted her head, her eyes darting between the four.

“Not many,” she admitted. “Perhaps they fled the city.”

“You saw the lion in the sky,” said the girl with the scarred face. “You know they remain.”

“They will strike now, while the city is vulnerable,” Deathmask insisted. “However, if we were to find them, and execute them, well…”

He made a grand gesture to the entire castle, grinning wickedly.

“Then the city would be made safe,” he said.

“What do you want in return?” she asked.

“Revoke your silly bounty,” Deathmask said. “It will only cost you soldiers if you don’t. Also, we prefer a bit more shadier form of… entertainment. Hayden’s laws need repealed. Death should not be the punishment for a small amount of debauchery.”

The queen stood and pointed to the door.

“Leave,” she said. “Come back when you find them, and bring me proof of their deaths. They whispered lies into my ears for long enough. Your bounty is rescinded. The rest awaits your return.”

“You are as wise as you are kind,” Deathmask said, bowing.

“And you are as manipulative as you are ruthless,” Annabelle said, dismissing his bow.

Deathmask laughed.

“Come,” he said to his Ash Guild. “We have work to do.”

T hat night they scoured the city but found no trace of the priests. They had already left under cover of darkness, through tunnels built a century ago for just such a case. The newly crowned Melorak led the way, a group of fifteen priests with him. They moved in silence, needing no words spoken.

They headed south, where the Elethan mountains ended in small, craggy hills. Many caves lined their bases, with streams flowing in and out. The priests weaved between the caves, stepping over the water when they could. As they penetrated deeper into the hills they saw smoke blotting out the stars, the result of a large bonfire. Melorak raised his hand to stop his priests.

“Pray to Karak for strength,” he told them. “And beware the lies of the other. Distrust his image. He may look like the prophet, but do not be fooled.”

They continued. The remainder of Karak’s army camped in a basin formed by six hills, with tents on either side of a stream that ran through the center. There was only one fire, and beside it stood a being similar to Velixar, his hands raised to the night sky as he cried out prayers. Melorak led his priests into the camp, slowly nodding his head at the tested who spotted his arrival.

“We are fellow servants of Karak,” he told them. “I wish to speak with your leader.”

The tested led him to the fire. Preston waited for them, his features shifting in the orange glow of the flame.

“Welcome to my fold,” he said. “My name is Melorak, and I command the faithful to Karak.”

“The faithful?” the true Melorak said. “Perhaps. That is what I’ve come to test.”

“Test my faith? I am ordained by Karak himself! I bear the prophesied name. Mordan will fall, and by my hand.”

Melorak pulled down his hood from his face and stood to his full height. His eyes shone a fierce red, and shadows danced at his fingertips. “I am the true Melorak,” he said. “I am the one Karak has waited for. You are a pretender, a deceiver, and a liar. Your time is done.”

“Blasphemy!” shouted Preston, his features quickening their changing. He hurled a bolt of shadow, but his opposite scoffed, the magical attack splashing across his robe as if it were water.

“Who here answers the true call of Karak?” Melorak asked. “Who here desires order among this chaos? Get behind me, and remain there. Those who think this… rotting thing you have created is a prophet, then stand behind him.”

At first none moved, but when Preston glared at his priests, furious at their hesitation, the crowd around them began to move. Priests and tested moved behind each side, with Melorak having only a third of the camp.

“A shame,” he said. “But this game must end. Karak has found his faithful, those worthy of such an honor that I will bestow.”

“Banish him from my camp,” Preston said. “I am the heir to Velixar, not him.”

They unleashed a wave of curses, shadow, and fire. The attacks all broke, as if a barrier were between the groups. High above them, smoke pooled together in a massive, angry cloud. Lightning cracked and exploded within.

“Pray!” Melorak shouted. “Beg for mercy! It is not too late! The faithful will survive, but the fool, the coward, he will burn, for eternity he will burn!”

Wind soared into the basin, howling angrily. The grass stood erect, flooded with magic. One by one, the stars faded away. Many beside Preston hid or cried out in fear. Their leader ordered them silent, but they paid him little heed.

“On your knees!” Melorak cried. “Humility for your error! Repentance for your arrogance! It is not too late.”

A scattered few fell to their knees, but the vast majority remained standing. Melorak hardened his heart. They had chosen. Karak’s power swirled about them, and still they clung to their choice. So be it. He heard Karak’s voice in his ear, clear and unwavering.

“Judgment!” he shouted. “It is now!”

The cloud tore open, and from within lions fell, their fur made of shadow, their teeth, moonlight. They roared in unison, their claws outstretched, their red eyes glinting with fire. They descended upon half the camp, tearing through flesh and crunching bone. Those that knelt, or stood behind Melorak, went unharmed. Preston, however, cried out a desperate plea to Karak as three lions circled around him.

“I did your will!” he shouted. “It was always your will.”

“You did as you desired,” one of the lions said. “Never Karak’s.”

They pounced on his rotting form and tore it to pieces, his frantic screams the last in the basin, followed only by prayers for forgiveness and mercy.

The true Melorak looked upon the carnage and smiled.

“Only the faithful remain,” he said. “As it must be. The prophet failed to understand the great damage a faithless follower could do.”

“Praise be to Karak,” said one of the priests as the lions faded away like smoke.

“Indeed,” Melorak said. “Praise be to him.”

They spread out, cleaning up the remains of the dead and casting them upon the bonfire. The basin was theirs now, and they had work to do.

T he first night they camped with the angels, the Eschaton slept in a single, giant tent that Tarlak somehow carried inside his hat. As the rest gathered around, he called Azariah over. With a twist of his hat, the blackened pendant that had harmed Lathaar fell to the ground.

“We were hoping you could tell us what to do,” Tarlak said as Azariah analyzed the pendant from afar.

“I’d prefer an explanation of what it is,” Lathaar said. “Since it nearly killed me and all.”

Azariah clutched a similar pendant that hung from his neck.

“When Velixar still lived, he was the high priest of Karak, known by a name now long forgotten,” he said. “Back then I was high priest for Ashhur, effectively Velixar’s counterpart. When the war broke between the gods, each of us were slain in battle. Ashhur made me as I am, as we all are, in the golden eternity after his imprisonment. Velixar, however, was given a different reprieve. Karak gave life to his bones. He trapped Velixar's soul in his pendant, and bade him never to fall until his release.”

“So Velixar can never die?” Harruq asked.

“He can,” Azariah said, gesturing to the pendant. “If that is destroyed.”

“Simple enough,” Jerico said, standing and grabbing his mace.

“No!” Azariah said. “There is more to it! For many years we’ve hoped a paladin of Ashhur might find that pendant, for its proximity to Velixar is deadly to him. He loses much of his strength so close to the object his life is contained within.”

“So we use it as a weapon?” Tarlak asked.

“I can talk to him then,” Azariah said. “Learn from him. No other man in this world has seen as much as he, and his understanding of clerical magic is immense.”

“What would you want to learn from him?” Aurelia asked, shifting uncomfortably against Harruq’s side and pulling their blanket higher. “He’s a vile thing. There’s no wisdom in that corpse.”

“He has been to the places Ashhur cannot go,” Azariah insisted. “He has heard the only voice Ashhur cannot hear. If I could just have a year or two to…”

“There will be no such thing,” said Ahaesarus as he entered the tent, Judarius at his side.

“Where is the pendant?” Judarius asked. Tarlak pointed to where it lay on the ground. The angel readied his enormous mace and approached.

“This is a mistake,” said Azariah.

Judarius hefted the mace high and swung. The pendant shattered into pieces. Purple smoke flashed into the air, the potent smell of sulfur burning their eyes.

“Too many centuries he has walked the land,” Ahaesarus said. “If we see him, we end him, and this time he’ll stay dead.”

The two left the tent. Azariah remained, sadly shaking his head.

“It is a sacrifice that sometimes must be made,” he said, slipping his pendant underneath his robes. “Faith over knowledge, safety over learning. So be it.”

He bowed to them all and left, his wings rustling against the flaps of the tent.

“Well that was depressing,” Tarlak said. When the others gave him strange looks, he clarified. “Even after death, it appears we’re still stuck with politics.”

The paladins laughed, and the others rolled their eyes and did their best to sleep.

Miles away, feeling abandoned by his god, Velixar shrieked in fury and terror as he felt truly vulnerable for the first time in centuries.

H aern limped up the stairs, the hairs on his neck standing on end. His heart thudded in his chest. He needed a window. He needed to see. Ominous but familiar shapes had poisoned his dreams, and when he awoke he had heard the sound of his nightmares.

“Please, no,” he whispered. “Just no.”

He found a window and looked out. Shimmering over the night sky was the lion, its outline traced in a bloody red. Again it roared, shaking the city with its sound.

“Damn you, Karak,” Haern said. “What game do you play now?”

It had been four days since Antonil’s departure. Bernard had cast healing spell after healing spell, and through the daily rituals Haern found his strength returning. But whatever priest cast the lion image, he was too powerful for him in his current state.

He returned to his bed, but when he sat down, he paused. The shadows were wrong.

“I know you’re here,” he said. “Show yourself.”

The lone torch in the room danced, and as the shadows flickered one of them leaped off the wall, growing thin white claws. Haern rolled back, drawing his sabers. He stabbed upward as he hit the ground, his attacker atop him. They cut through the shadow, doing no visible harm. The claws scraped his face. Its body might have been intangible, but its claws were real, and as blood splattered across the floor Haern rolled.

The shadow lunged after him, claws leading, but Haern dropped to the floor. The shadow sailed over him, its claws entangled in the thick cloth of his bed. Haern spun, tossing his sheets over the shadow. Dropping one of his sabers, he grabbed the torch and yanked it free. He faced his attacker, trying not to be disoriented by the way the cloth shook and moved as if a real person were underneath. What he fought was a denizen of Karak’s Abyss, and every act was lie and deception.

The cloth dropped, and the shadow slid underneath, its claws shredding their way out. Haern beat it back with his torch, swinging and parrying it as if it were a sword. The shadow shrieked as the fire passed through its being, the unearthly sound a combination of bird and lion. It leaped back, slashed its claws against the wall, and then lunged. Haern swung, but it lashed at his torch with both claws and then bit down on the handle. Blood spurted as the teeth sank into his hand. Haern kicked, but his foot passed right through. Desperate, he spun, tore his hand free, and fell to the bed. The shadow hovered over him, its toothy grin dripping with blood.

It lurched forward, shrieking its bizarre call. The shadows shrank inward, the teeth and claws shattered, and only Deathmask remained, standing at the door with a hand outstretched and glowing purple.

“I thought they would come for you,” he said.

“Who is 'they'?” Haern asked, wrapping his bleeding hand with a torn part of his shirt.

“Wish I knew,” Deathmask said. “Karak’s priests are proving far more… dangerous than originally expected. Tonight they launched an assault, and I had a hunch they would try to finish you off while you were still weak.”

“I’m hardly weak,” Haern said, tightening the knot on his hand with his teeth.

“Not at full strength, then,” Deathmask said. “And try not to be insulted. You’re not the only powerful man to nearly die tonight.”

Outside the castle the lion in the sky roared in victory.

“Shit,” Deathmask said. “There’s only one other person they could be after.”

“Who?” Haern asked, slipping between the sorcerer and the door.

“Bernard lost his hand,” Deathmask said, glaring. “Would have lost his head if not for Veliana. Same can’t be said for many of his priests. Now get out of my way; the twins are trying to protect the queen!”

Haern focused on the pain in his hand, using it to fight away the aches in his bones and the sharp throb in his chest.

“I’ll lead the way,” he said.

The two ran up the stairs and down a well-lit hallway.

“The queen’s room is the other way,” Deathmask said as they ran.

“That’s not where she’ll be,” Haern said. “Now hurry!”

As they neared the back of the castle they turned, they way opening up into a garden. The queen sat on one of the benches, aimlessly twirling a flower.

“Your highness!” Haern shouted. She stood, dropping the flower as a flash of anger crossed her face. Behind her, her shadow in the moonlight stretched longer and longer.

“Move!” Deathmask cried, a spell already dancing on his fingertips. Haern leaped, slamming his shoulder into her side and pushing her away. The queen’s shadow lunged from the ground, shimmering claws stabbing. It sliced air, and then Deathmask’s spell struck, a purple and gold ball of magic that exploded the shadow into smoke. Deathmask sighed as Haern helped the queen to her feet.

“If there are any spellcasters in this city,” Deathmask said, “you might consider hiring them to protect you.”

“If there are any, they’re in hiding,” the queen said, brushing dirt off her dress. “And have been since Valrik was an advisor to my husband. He banished their kind when he realized how much influence they had over him.”

“Your husband had a knack for banishing people,” said Deathmask.

“Sometimes it was warranted,” Annabelle said, holding her arms to her waist and looking about. “Valrik was an evil man. What is going on in my kingdom, rogue? The lion roars in the sky, and my people are frightened.”

“We’re trying to find them,” Deathmask said. “They’re far cleverer than I anticipated. Give us time. We’ll…”

He stopped as Mier and Nien entered the garden. Their clothes were torn, and blood ran from open wounds on their faces.

“My god,” Annabelle said, staring open mouthed at the twins.

“Queen’s room wasn’t safe,” said Mier.

“Not safe at all,” said Nien.

“Damn it,” Deathmask said as both collapsed to the grass. “Now I need a healer.”

He made a rude gesture to the sky as the lion roared one last time before fading away.

T hat next morning, Haern awoke to find Bernard sleeping one bed over in the infirmary.

“This is a switch,” Haern said as he propped himself up on his elbow. He winced when he saw the priest’s right hand, just a stump wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Ignoring his aches, he stepped off the bed. It didn’t look like he’d be receiving too much healing magic anymore.

Normally the queen had a large breakfast with advisors, nobles, and members of her guard, but the previous night had put a damper on things. Instead, a few servant girls kept some soup warmed over a small fire and handed out fresh bread to those that wanted it. Haern ate in the gigantic hall, looking at banner after banner representing the kings of old. Most were ugly, but a few he wouldn’t mind wearing as a tabard, if he absolutely had to. As he ate, Veliana sat down next to him, holding a small wooden bowl filled with soup.

“How’d you get in here?” Haern asked as he took a bite of his bread.

“Irrelevant,” Veliana said, dipping her bread in the soup. “Although we don’t normally ask for help, you come from the ranks of thieves and murderers, so you’re more trustworthy than most.”

“I also policed you thieves and murderers in the name of the king,” Haern said. “Is that irrelevant too?”

“Mostly,” she said, taking a bite. She winked at him with her lone good eye. “But it does mean you were strong enough to survive hundreds of assassination attempts. That probably means something.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

She waited until she had finished half her bowl before speaking.

“We want the same thing. We want those priests dead. Once done, you can get on with your life, and we can get on with our business. You can even police us again, if you’d like, but I doubt that will be necessary. There will be no rival guilds to us, not like in Veldaren.”

“I’m not fully recovered,” Haern said.

“Still better at swordplay than anyone else in this city,” she said. “And I doubt you’ve lost your stealth.”

She stood, smoothing out her shirt and tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.

“Besides, you don’t need to fight them,” she said. “Find them, and we’ll do the rest.”

“How will I find you? ” he asked.

She tossed him a coin. It was bronze. One side was blank, and the other, imprinted with the image of a skull.

“Kiss the skull,” she said, again winking. “I’ll come running.”

She left him to finish his breakfast. He rolled the coin over his knuckles, thinking things over. His gut told him if the priests were still inside the city, Deathmask would have already found them. That meant they were outside the walls, and he knew of only one person who could track anything or anyone in the wild.

He finished his bowl and wiped his face. It was time to find Dieredon.

H e had expected Dieredon to leave with Antonil and his men, but underestimated Sonowin’s injuries. He found the two just outside the walls. Dieredon sat with his bow on his back while Sonowin limped along, eating clumps of grass. Haern winced at the sight of her. Her right wing was folded tight against her side, several long bandages holding it firmly in place. He felt terrible guilt knowing she had endured that to save him.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said as Dieredon stood and bowed.

“It is fine,” Dieredon said. “They wanted to keep her in a stable, cramped and without room for her wings. Sometimes your race worries me, Watcher.”

“Haern is fine,” he said. “With Veldaren most likely in rubble, I’m not sure I could claim that title anymore.”

Dieredon nodded at the reminder that he was not alone in his suffering.

“Forgive me,” the elf said. “I care for her is all. I’m not sure she will ever fly again.”

“Perhaps Ashhur will be kind and her wing will grow strong,” Haern said. “But please forgive me, for I come asking aid.”

“The lion in the sky,” Dieredon said. “I saw it last night. The priests are not going to die without a fight.”

“We need to stop them,” Haern said.

Dieredon could easily see where this was heading.

“If they’re outside the city, I can find them,” he said. “I’ll start searching come nightfall. Meet me here in the morning. When I find them, I will tell you where they are.”

“Thank you,” Haern said, bowing low. “I will never be able to repay you for all you have done.”

“Live well,” Dieredon said. “It is payment enough.”

T wo days later Haern met Dieredon in the field. By the look on the elf’s face, he knew something was amiss.

“Did you find them?” he asked.

“I did,” Dieredon said. “But there is something you must see.”

“What is it?”

“No,” Dieredon said. “Meet me here after dusk. I will show you.”

H ours later, the two ran silently toward the south. Speed and stealth was their specialty. Dieredon led the way, his wicked bow slung across his back. Haern kept his sabers sheathed, but when they neared the first set of hills, he felt his heart racing so he drew them.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“The craghills,” Dieredon said. “At least, that was how it was once known. What it is becoming, well…” He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

He led them to the top of a hill, and from there he pointed to the rows and rows of undead that stood as silent, sleepless guardians. Several fires lined the camp, and all about he saw priests and dark paladins. Directly in the center was a single object, constructed of stone and wood. It looked like an idol of some sort, but it certainly wasn’t of Karak.

“What is going on here?” Haern asked. “How could there be so many?”

“Our victory was shallow,” Dieredon said. “Karak’s army fled before suffering any major casualties. We assumed they traveled with the demons toward Veldaren. We were wrong.”

“We need to stop them,” Haern whispered. “Somehow.”

“There is more ill news,” Dieredon said. He trudged back down the hill and brushed away a large patch of grass taller than his thigh, revealing a tunnel dug deep into the earth.

“I found several of these,” he said as Haern peered within. “And I even followed one to its end. They lead underneath the walls. They’re getting in and out at will. I closed up the few I found, but there are many more, and they lead all throughout the city.”

“They were ready for this,” Haern said. “They couldn’t have dug these in the past few days.”

“How many years?” Dieredon asked. “How long have they controlled the hearts and minds of Mordan’s people?”

“I don’t know,” Haern said, shaking his head. “But far too long. Let’s head back to the city. I have a few friends I need to talk to.”

Dieredon covered the hole back up with grass and sprinted north, Haern at his heels. Behind them, Karak’s army continued building their strange contraption.

F or seven nights, the lion roared in the sky. The entire city remained on edge, sleep often impossible. Guards remained constantly alert. And then the killings started.

“Shadows,” Deathmask said as they gathered around the bloodied body in the middle of the street.

“They’re targeting at random now,” Haern said, sadly shaking his head. “There’s no way we can stop this.”

“We can,” Deathmask said, glaring at the roaring lion shimmering amid the stars. “If someone had the guts to do what must be done.”

“Leave the walls?” Dieredon said. “Leave them for open warfare with the few soldiers we have left?”

“The walls don’t matter,” Nien said.

“They just pass through,” Mier said.

“We stay,” Haern said. “Until we know their plan, we stay.”

“Stubborn mule,” Deathmask said, scattering ash over his face. “But again, that’s hardly a surprise.”

He and his guild separated, each of them eager to hunt for shadows and priests. Only Dieredon and Haern remained.

“The city reeks of fear,” Dieredon said. He gestured to the corpse. “This will only make it worse.”

“We keep the queen safe, and protect the city best we can,” Haern said. “But it’s been a week. Have you returned to their camp?”

The elf shook his head. “Not yet, but I shall. If they plan on marching against the walls, I want to be ready.”

“The night is still young,” Haern said. “Go now.”

Dieredon bowed, drew his bow, and raced down the street.

“We won’t lose this,” Haern said, staring down at the mutilated body of a young man. “Not so close to victory. We won’t lose. We can’t.”

He drew his sabers and leaped to the rooftops, searching for signs of another attack.

D ieredon crept across the hill, shifting his weight with every inch to leave no sign of his passing. His eyes narrowed at sight of the camp. The object in the center appeared closer to completion. It looked like a gigantic lion reared back on its hind legs with its mouth open in a roar. Priests surrounded it, either worshiping, praying, or casting spells; he couldn’t decide which. Hundreds of undead marched in a circle around the camp, a constant guard against attack.

Where are the paladins? he wondered. The past two times he’d seen several of them milling about, a pathetic remnant of their former numbers.

He heard a soft rustle of grass just behind him. Dieredon spun, grabbing his bow and swinging. Blades snapped out the ends. They smashed into the gray robes, cutting flesh but drawing no blood. Dieredon felt his heart skip a beat as a man with glowing red eyes pointed a finger at him.

“You should not interfere,” said the priest. A wave of black mist rolled from his body. Dieredon felt his mind blank, and the muscles in his body tensed and twisted.

“You can’t be,” Dieredon said through clenched teeth. “You can’t be another.”

“I am not the prophet,” the priest said, yanking the bow out of his leg. “I am not even worthy to travel at his side. My name is Melorak, a humble servant of our glorious god. What does this city matter to you, elf? They chased your kind away, slaughtered thousands as they burned your forests and poisoned your waters.”

“You hurt Sonowin,” Dieredon said, the muscles in his body returning to his control. “That’s more than enough.”

He rolled, avoiding a black arrow that shot from the man’s finger. Several more followed, but he flipped to his feet, spun, and leaped, his right heel smashing into Melorak’s face. Dieredon winced, feeling as if he kicked stone, but the priest staggered back, blood spurting from his nose.

“Be gone from here!” Melorak shouted. Waves of power rolled from his body, each one like a board of wood slamming into Dieredon. He hid his head and braced himself, enduring each blow. When they ended he uncurled, grabbing his bow and leaping backward.

“I’ve fought your better,” he said, drawing an arrow. “Compared to Velixar, you’re nothing.”

He released the arrow, its aim true. It should have pierced through Melorak’s right eye, but instead it halted in air an inch from his face.

“He may be my better,” Melorak said. “But I am far from nothing.”

Dieredon fired several more arrows, each one halting as if gripped by invisible hands. One by one they turned around, their glistening tips aimed straight at him. A wave of Melorak’s hand and the arrows resumed their travel. The elf twisted and fell, the arrows whizzing by his body, all but one, which tore through the flesh of his leg.

“How long have you been a champion for the elves?” Melorak asked as he twirled his hands, summoning a gigantic ball of flame at his feet. “How long have you represented the pinnacle of skill with blade and bow?”

Dieredon clutched his bleeding leg and glared.

“Always questions,” Dieredon said as the ball of flame grew. “Why does your kind have to ask so many damn questions?”

He somersaulted into the air as the ball rolled across the ground, spitting globs of fire in all directions. When he landed he collapsed, his injured leg unable to support his weight. He gritted his teeth, holding in a scream. A blast of red lightning from Melorak’s hand released it.

“I question because I am considered the liar,” Melorak said. “I question because I am seen as evil. But what are you, if you cannot answer? Certainly not good. Certainly not truth.”

Dieredon twirled his bow in his hands, tensed on his one good leg, and then lunged. Melorak cast a shielding spell, but the enchantments on his bow were strong, and the sharp spike on the end punched through the shield, through his upraised hand, and through the flesh of his throat. Dieredon kicked him in the chest, twisted his bow, and then yanked it free. Melorak collapsed to his knees, gagging and clutching his bleeding throat.

“Like I said,” Dieredon said, breathing heavily. “Nothing.”

Light flared around the priest’s hands. The flesh on his neck stitched together. The blood dried and flaked away. Melorak gasped in air as if emerging from deep within a pool of water.

“Nothing?” he said, his voice hoarse. The red in his eyes flared bright. “You fool. You blind, arrogant fool.”

He outstretched both hands, a swirling black and red vortex on his palms. Two beams of magic shot from them, slamming into Dieredon’s chest. He flew several feet from the impact before rolling down the hill like a rag doll. Melorak wiped blood from his nose and spat out a chunk of red phlegm.

“Leave my camp,” he said to Dieredon as the elf struggled to a stand. “If you’re wise, you’ll leave the city entirely. Return to your kind. I have no quarrel with you.”

Dieredon said nothing. He limped away, accepting his good fortune to still be alive. Melorak watched him go, a grim smile on his face. He had fought the best the city had to offer, and won. No longer did he hold any secret doubts. The siege was guaranteed. Soon, very soon, the city would be his.

T hat morning, Haern and Dieredon gathered atop the outer wall and watched Karak’s army approach. The undead led the way, hundreds of rotting corpses lumbering mindlessly in long rows. The tested followed, singing hymns with their skeletal hands raised skyward. Dark paladins followed next, their black armor shining. The priests were last, surrounding Melorak as if he were a king. In the center of the army rolled a gigantic lion carved atop a massive cart pushed by a combination of tested and undead.

“Will they assault?” a nearby soldier asked the two.

“No,” Dieredon said. “They’re too patient. Our army is marching across the nations. They have all the time in the world for a siege.”

A few hundred feet out of bow range they stopped and spread out. The undead circled the city, the majority of the army staying before the gates. They rolled the giant lion forward, and from its mouth clouds of black smoke billowed out.

“What is its purpose?” Haern wondered aloud.

Dieredon had no answer, and so they watched as it neared the outer ring of undead. The priests began chanting. The smoke poured out thicker and lower. Melorak joined in the chant. The smoke took on an unearthly quality, falling like water from the lion’s mouth and splitting into two rivers. These rivers surrounded the city, rolling up to the walls like waves at a shore. It stained the wall black wherever it touched.

“Completely surrounded,” Dieredon said as the undead began circling the city in a slow, lumbering ring. “And I fear what might happen should someone living touch that smoke.”

“How long can we last?” Haern asked. “How much food do we have?”

“A month or two,” Dieredon said. “I checked our storehouses. The army left and took everything with it.”

High above, the lion roared, well aware of how close its victory was.