She boosted his foot so he could plant it on the sill, then grab a hold of the roof and climb up. Veliana used a similar maneuver, though she needed no help, and her lithe body landed atop the roof with a soft thud.
“Show off,” Deathmask said, winking.
“What is it we’re waiting for?” she asked. “Can’t you see? The battle is about to start!”
She pointed to where the demons flew toward Avlimar in diamond formations. Deathmask ignored her, for he kept his gaze to the castle.
“Just wait,” he said.
“For what?”
He glared at her through the gray mask. “I said wait.”
Minutes crawled. With her arms crossed, Veliana watched the battle in the sky vanish into the interior of Avlimar. Deathmask knew she wondered why they hadn’t made for the wall like Bernard asked them, but then Rakkar announced its presence with a great roar that shook the city. It tore into the sky, breathing fire and spreading smoke with each beat of its wings. It sailed right over them, the passing of its shadow chilling both to the bone.
“Go,” Deathmask said, suddenly urging Veliana toward the castle. “Help Bernard, and quickly!”
“What? But he asked…”
“I don’t care what he asked!” Deathmask shouted, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close. “He is a fool if he thinks the two of us can get that army inside. This city lives or dies by Melorak’s hand. Go, while the dragon is gone!”
She pulled her wrist free and glared.
“And you? What will you do?”
Deathmask pointed far down the street, where Haern ran along the rooftops toward them.
“There’s a reason we’re up here,” he said, grinning. “Like I said, I’m tired of being the hunted. Go. Kill the priest-king, and I’ll deal with our stalker.”
She kissed her palm and then blew it to him.
“You better live, you bastard,” she said before leaping off the roof.
Deathmask cracked his neck and looked to Haern.
“Planned on it,” he said as the assassin landed before him, his sabers drawn. He leered up at him with his dead eyes. Deathmask saw a hint of recognition in them and wondered just how loose Melorak’s control had grown. With both the dragon and the assassin to dominate, he had to be stretched thin. Perhaps that would gain him an advantage. Or perhaps it would let more of Haern’s skill return, and he’d die in seconds. Only one way to find out.
“An age ago, you and I dominated an entire city,” he said as Haern remained crouched and ready to lunge. He kept a spell ready, the single word of power eager on his lips. “It is such a disgrace to see you like this. Let me end it, Watcher. Let me send you to the grave, free from the priest-king’s taint.”
Still Haern remained, watching, waiting. Deathmask gave him no sign of attack. He would not be goaded into making the first move.
“Can you even understand me?” he asked. “Or is your brain rotted and worthless, your soul just a mindless ghost following orders…”
In the distance, Rakkar roared, and Haern lunged with it, his movements a sudden blur. Deathmask cast his spell. Fire burst in a circle around him, soaring twenty feet high in a great circular pillar. Haern twisted to the side, pulling back from his killing lunge. He was just a half-seen shadow but Deathmask tracked him best he could and then guessed at a landing. When the fire lowered, he slammed his hands together. The pillar exploded anew, this time further down the roof. Haern twisted, landing on one hand and then remaining like that as the fire surrounded him.
“I’ve got you,” Deathmask said, grinning.
Haern suddenly vanished and reappeared several feet to his right, still standing on his hand.
Neat trick, he thought as the assassin dove underneath his barrage of shadow bolts. He jumped and rolled in a circle, constantly seeking his back. Deathmask kept spinning, flinging shadow and conjuring fire in a desperate offense. The second he relented, and Haern closed the gap, he knew he was dead. He kept a ring of fire about him, ready to erupt in a moment’s notice. Once he thought Haern ready to stab, but it was just a feint, and he wasted yet another bit of his concentration ripping the fire into a wall to protect himself.
In the light of the flame, he lost sight of Haern. Knowing he had erred, and badly, he crouched down and activated one last spell. Bat wings stretched from his back, and he lifted into the air, hoping to put as much distance between them as he could. A blade slashed his leg as Haern lunged, and he screamed as the blood ran down. He flapped the ethereal wings harder. Haern twisted as he fell, hit the roof, and then leaped as if gravity were a nuisance he could ignore at will. Stunned, Deathmask flung several orbs of fire, all missing. Haern slammed into him, cutting and slicing. They fell, a jumbled collection of wings, cloaks, and swords.
Deathmask landed atop of Haern, and he dismissed the wings. Pain flared up and down his chest, and he knew he had a dozen cuts. One of Haern’s sabers lay far to the side, a wonderful blessing if he’d ever seen one. Deathmask clutched the wrist that held the other, and it took all his strength to keep it pressed against the rooftop. With his free hand he reached for Haern’s face, fire swarming about his skin. Haern grabbed his wrist and held on, keeping back the deadly flame.
“Just a little fire,” Deathmask said, gritting his teeth and flinging all the force of his weight down on his arm. Still Haern held back. The burning hand inched closer, closer. Haern’s eyes locked on his, and they stared, watching, struggling. The hand lowered once more. And then it rose. His strength was not enough. Deathmask felt horror rise in his throat as the assassin began lifting him off.
“Don’t you do this,” Deathmask shouted. “Goddamn it, remember who you are! Remember who you serve!”
The muscles in his neck stretched, and he pushed down with all his might. If he could just touch Haern with his hand, just once, for only a moment…
“Delysia…” Haern suddenly whispered. The hand wavered. As they stared, Deathmask watched recognition slowly bloom in his eyes. The hand lowered. And lowered. And then, with one sudden tug, Haern flung Deathmask’s hand against his cold dead face. As the fire burned, he smiled.
“Rest well,” Deathmask said as the decaying body burst into flame, the gray robes and cloaks billowing smoke as they were consumed. He stepped back, tightened the cloth about his face, and looked to the wall. The archers atop fired volley after volley, and still he heard Rakkar roar. He might not be able to open the gates, but perhaps he could still help. He scooped a bit of the ash of Haern’s corpse, flung it, and set it into motion about his face. With the mask complete, he climbed down to the street.
It was time the Ghost ignited the fires of rebellion.
Bernard knelt in prayer, hidden in a small alcove between two homes. If he’d looked up and opened his eyes, he would have seen the row of guards standing at the top of the steps guarding the castle doors. But he didn’t, not for several minutes more. At last, when he felt any more delay would be cowardice only, he stood and approached. The guards drew their swords, but they were only four.
“Let me pass, and no harm will come to you,” he said.
“Get lost,” said one.
“Wait, I recognize those robes,” said another. “He’s a priest. Arrest him!”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” said Bernard.
When the first reached for his arm, Bernard turned his palm toward the soldier’s face and spoke a word of power. Blinding light burst outward, and the man screamed and stumbled back. His foot slipped on the stairs, and then he rolled down them, landing hard on the street below. The second guard swung his sword, but the priest stepped back and clapped his hands. Two orbs of light flared into existence as his hands opened, then shot directly into his attacker’s chest. The guard collapsed, his limbs shaking wildly.
The other two rushed at once, trying to close the distance. Bernard wore no armor, and wielded no blade to defend himself. It didn’t matter. He blinded one, then made a slashing motion with his hand. A golden blade shimmere
d in the air, appearing just long enough to cut him down before fading away. Another slash with his hand, and the final guard toppled, blind and bleeding from a gash across his throat.
“A bad idea,” the priest muttered, pulling open the castle doors and stepping inside.
He gasped at the sight within. Men and women hung from hooks along the walls, like slabs of meat at a butcher’s hall. They stared with naked eyes, their lids sliced off. At his entrance they writhed against the hooks and reached out, moaning in warning. A shiver of fear ran through him, quickly replaced by anger.
“Such disrespect toward life,” he said, taking a step toward the nearest. “You sad, wretched thing. Rest now. Death comes for you with its sweet respite.”
His hand glowed a soft white, and then the corpse turned to dust, the dark magic within it unable to withstand such power. He looked to the others, spreading his arms toward each side of the hall.
“Be gone!” he cried, washing the grand entrance with his faith. The undead shook as if in great pain, and then went still. One by one they fell to the floor, their flesh now dust and their bones broken clay. A foreboding silence replaced their wails, and through the dust Bernard strode down the hall toward the throne room.
Even through the stone walls, he heard Rakkar’s roar signaling its departure for the battlefield. Bernard offered a quick prayer for those who would face its wrath, then continued on. It was Rakkar that he had come to stop. Melorak was its ruler, its link to the world. It was time to end the priest-king and save Mordeina from his madness.
The throne room was equally defiled by the dead, and he spent a moment to give them the peace they’d been denied. He’d expected Melorak to be there, but was not. Closing his eyes, he let his magical senses wander. He was less attuned than any wizard or necromancer, but in matters of faith, his sense was strong, though it didn’t matter. Melorak pulsed like a giant heart of darkness. It was like searching for a mountain with the eyes of a hawk.
He passed down the stone hallways, turning every now and then should he wander too far. He kept his hands at his sides, glowing with the light of Ashhur. His fingertips brushed the undead along the walls, turning them to dust and silencing their groans. At last he stepped into what had once been a garden, before Karak had had his way with it. Ugly runes covered the dead grass, carved with blood. The few trees were barren, their branches shriveled into themselves. In the center, amid torn earth, stood Melorak.
“I’ve wondered when I would meet you again,” he said, slowly opening his eyes. They had a distant look to them, as if he were half-asleep. He smiled, his lone good eye smoldering red. “Perhaps you don’t remember me, but I remember you. For twenty years you resisted the inevitable, protecting your pathetic temple to Ashhur while my faithful conquered the hearts and minds of the people.”
“What was your name?” Bernard asked. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and he felt a wave of anxiety sweep over him. There, in that blasted clearing, he seemed so far away from Ashhur.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Melorak. “For I have a new name, one given to me by the true god of this world. I am the heir to Velixar, the right fang of the Lion. Can you hear its roar? Even now, my beautiful creation slaughters the last remnants that still swear their faith to Ashhur.”
Bernard forced himself to calm. Ashhur hadn’t gone anywhere. His faith was strong. It was only the foul sensation, the total culmination of a thousand prayers to Karak, gathered there in that clearing to take physical form in the beast, Rakkar. He still felt its echo, its taint. Light swirled around his hands as Melorak laughed.
“You cannot challenge me,” he said. “You are nothing. Did you see the demons give chase to your angels? Even Avlimar is not safe. Karak will soon walk free. If you leave now, I will let you live to see his glorious return. Perhaps when you look upon his beautiful face you will throw yourself down and beg forgiveness for a lifetime of transgressions.”
“You have not yet won,” said Bernard.
Again Melorak laughed.
“Not yet, perhaps, but the time is coming. This is the end. Can you not feel it?”
The white light grew in his palms.
“Yes, I can. You are right about that. It is indeed the end.”
Bernard pressed his wrists together and opened his palms. A beam of pure white light shot forth, releasing with a great crack that blew away the dead grass and rattled the gnarled branches. Melorak crossed his arms and summoned a shield of shadows. The light met the darkness. The ground shook from the impact. The shield held, but Bernard gave him no reprieve. He made slashing motions with his fingers, and golden swords shimmered into existence, hovering in the air directly before Melorak. They broke against the shield, unable to penetrate.
Melorak grabbed a chunk of dirt and flung it. Shadows swarmed about the projectile, and Bernard summoned his own shield. When the projectile struck, it exploded into a hundred lances of shadow, which splashed across the white dome protecting the priest.
“There is no chance for you,” Melorak said, hurling bolt after bolt of darkness. He didn’t seem to care that they splashed harmlessly against the shield, for he surely knew every impact drained a bit more of Bernard’s energy. Bernard felt a moment of doubt but shrugged it away. He’d come to die. He’d made peace with that. The only thing that mattered was that he took Melorak with him, or at the very least, weakened his control over the dragon long enough for the others to stand a chance.
“Such certainty,” Bernard said, dismissing his shield and slamming his palms to the ground.
A shockwave traveled across the dirt, throwing chunks to either side. In its very center swirled an orb of silver. Melorak leapt aside, knowing he could not protect against it. The orb struck the stone wall and then continued on, blasting a hole in the castle before continuing through. Bernard stood before the great trench it’d created and unleashed a second.
This time Melorak spun, his body rapidly cocooned with shadows. Just before the orb reached him, he vanished. Bernard summoned another shield, expecting an attack. He was right, for atop the tree Melorak reappeared, a beam of darkness already screaming from his palms. Bernard braced his legs and gasped as it hit. His head throbbed, and he felt his body slide several feet back along the grass. He was old, while Melorak was young and blessed with an unnatural life. His features shifted and changed, masking the death and rot behind. For some reason, Bernard felt anger at such an illusion. How dare he assume supremacy while hiding from what he was?
“Enough!” he cried, flinging aside the beam and then slamming his hands together. A wave of magic rolled over Melorak, dispelling the illusion. The red light left his eye, becoming a dull brown. The shifting of his features ended, revealing gray flesh pockmarked and in full rot. When he snarled, his lips drew back to reveal rotting teeth crawling with maggots.
“How dare you?” Melorak spat. He stood to his full height, two dark voids growing across his hands. “What is it you hope to prove? I have conquered death! I live when all others would have died! I am Karak’s chosen. I am his beloved! Look upon me with fear, you pathetic mortal priest. I am the hand of the true god, and I do not fear your faith.”
He flung the orbs, hollow, empty things that seemed to tear all light into them and snuff it out. Bernard summoned his shield, but then screamed at their contact. He felt his strength pouring away, the light swirling into them before becoming mixed with the nothingness. His mind blanked, and then he collapsed. The ground spun beneath him, and his breath came in wheezes. When he looked up, he saw Melorak glaring down, his face still a visage of death and decay.
“Tell Ashhur the walls of the Eternity grow ever thinner,” Melorak said. “Tell him I come for him next, marching at the right hand of Karak himself.”
He grinned, then suddenly staggered back as three daggers lodged deep into his face and throat. Despite such horrible wounds, he glared at the intruder. Bernard reached up, fighting off a swirling sense of vertigo to grab Melorak’s wrist. Light shone about
his fingertips.
“Only dead,” he whispered. The spell flared out of him, powered by his faith. Melorak shrieked, first out of surprise, then agony. His rotted flesh turned to dust. His bones snapped and fell. Dark, ethereal strands of magic, like trapped spirits, soared out of his robe. And then Bernard held only a thin piece of bone.
“You stupid old bastard,” Veliana said, standing over him with her hand offered. Her grin was ear to ear. “Deathmask thought you might need some help.”
He accepted her hand. She pulled him to his feet, and he grabbed her shoulders to steady himself.
“Thank you,” he said, leaning his weight against her. “Forgive me for not asking for your aid earlier. I guess I still succumb to the sin of pride.”
“Enough of sins,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Let’s get to the streets. Our part in this is not over.”
Bernard chuckled. “May an old man catch his breath first?”
There in the ruined garden, they heard a vicious roar, from deep within the throat of Rakkar.
“No,” Veliana said, stepping toward the entrance. She stopped, drew her dagger, and looked back to Melorak’s corpse. “Actually, yes. There’s one thing I need first before we can go…”
29
He’d been told to trust the priests to open a way through the walls, but Antonil found himself doubting. They walked ahead of the soldiers, the one called Keziel leading the rest. They were but a handful, while the wall towered before them, white stone immensely thick. They seemed so diminutive in comparison.
“We’ve got no siege weaponry,” said Sergan, riding beside him. “We entrust the success of our entire attack to those priests. No rope, no catapults, no ladders, no siege towers. We’re doomed, completely doomed.”
“Such optimism,” Antonil said, though he felt similar sentiments. He glanced once more to the priests, then angled his horse over to speak with them.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 159