David Dalglish - The Old Ways

“What is this?” he asked her, a grin on his face despite his exhaustion and sorrow. “What good is that armor? What good is that crown? What kingdom do you rule?”

“With your death, I will be redeemed,” she said.

“You’re wrong, Valessa. You’ll be lady of the dead, a princess of graves. All hail her majesty.”

He could see the desperation in her eyes and knew she could endure no more. Her thrust came in wild, and he smacked it aside. Stepping in, he swung his sword. It passed straight through her waist, the armor nothing but an illusion, her flesh nothing but shadow. The light of his blade burned, and her form dwindled, changed, became only a beaten woman stumbling naked away from him in fear.

“Give Karak my greetings,” he said to her, thrusting for her neck.

She screamed, dropped her dagger, and fled. His thrust missed by an inch. She was nothing but a shapeless darkness as she ran to Cyric, who stood over the corpses of Gregory’s three men. All of them were dead, but they’d stopped the sacrifice. Darius lifted his sword, determined to not let it all be in vain. He pointed it at the priest, who looked down at Valessa with disgust.

“A night to remember,” Darius said, no humor in his voice. “You were right about that, Cyric.”

“I’ll rip your heart from your chest,” Cyric said. “I’ll crush it between my fingers before the altar.”

Cyric turned his blade to the side, the light across it burning brighter.

“Try it.”

The priest stretched out his hand, and a beam of pure darkness shot from his palm. Darius blocked it with his sword, bracing his legs to endure the blast. He felt his arms jar, felt the incredible strength beat against him, but he held his ground. He thought of the way Jerico had endured far greater, of how he had withstood the onslaught of wolf-men as if it were nothing. Darius would do the same. The magic would not defeat him. He would prove Cyric wrong. The night was theirs, not Karak’s.

Cyric ended the attack, instead hurling a curse. Darius felt it latch onto his limbs like invisible chains, but he shrugged it off, breaking the magic with a plea to Ashhur. Lightning followed, but it swirled into the sword and died.

“Where’s your strength?” Darius asked, slowly approaching.

Fire this time. Darius leapt to one side, then slammed his sword into the dirt. The light of his blade flared, and the flames could not abide it. Drawing it free, he resumed his approach.

“Where’s the awesome power?”

Cyric clapped his hands together, summoning a thick wall of shadow. Darius cut through it like it was paper.

“I thought you were a god?”

Cyric’s eyes were full of fear. His strength was insufficient. He’d been challenged, and defeated. To Darius’s words, he had no counter. Power swelled across his hands, and Darius prepared for one last barrage, one last attempt to prove his might. Instead, a dark portal emerged behind the priest, swirling with stars. As he leapt through, Valessa grabbed onto him, shrieking for him to not abandon her. Together they vanished within. The portal closed, and with that, they were gone.

Darius fell to his knees and gasped for air. The moment passed, and his exhaustion returned. He could hardly believe what he’d done. Sounds of battle pierced his daze, and he looked to the road leading into the village. The soldiers still fought, and worse, the lion still roared. The paladin forced himself to a stand, clutching his greatsword with both hands. That abomination needed to be returned to the Abyss from whence it came. Blood pounding in his ears, he ran toward the enemy flank.

Most of Karak’s soldiers had died, overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Their bodies lay strewn across the road, still in haphazard lines. Kayne, however, remained. The lion tore through their ranks, their chainmail nothing to his massive teeth and claws. The soldiers struck at his side and thrust for his underbelly, but to no avail. Kayne was too quick, too strong. A few pieces of rock had chipped off his side, and strangely enough, it appeared he bled liquid fire.

“To me, beast!” Darius cried as he came running, trying to sound braver than he felt. “Do not waste your time with pups when you could fight a wolf!”

Kayne heard his voice and turned. A deep snarl emitted from his throat.

“Traitor,” he rumbled.

To this, Darius laughed.

“I was loyal to Karak,” he said. “Karak turned on me, sent his followers to kill me, and now would have a priest sacrifice hundreds in his name. I dare say Karak’s the one who betrayed us.”

Kayne tensed, and his claws dug into the hard earth.

“You speak blasphemy and false truths,” he said. “I’ll tear your lying tongue from your head!”

The lion leapt, reaching his full speed in the blink of an eye. Darius fought his instincts to dodge aside, for Ashhur’s voice did not cry retreat in his ear, nor danger. It told him to stand. Trusting it, he thrust his greatsword to meet Kayne’s charge, putting every ounce of his strength into the attack. The lion filled Darius’s vision, throat full of fire, roar rolling against him like a physical force. But a light shone from his blade, and it grew, and grew. Kayne tried to bat the sword aside as he descended, to clear the way for his kill.

His paws sliced clean off instead. The sword remained unmoved. Mouth open, charge in full, Kayne fell upon Darius. The paladin’s blade went up to the hilt inside his jaws, the tip piercing out his back. Fire burned, and Darius felt its heat, but the light enveloped him, protected him. Rock cracked, turned molten and rolled in all directions as the creature howled and broke. In the center of the corpse, Darius stood, sword held in hand as the fire slowly dwindled away. He took a deep breath, then smiled. At his feet, the grass was burned black but for where he stood.

“Thank you,” he whispered, then lifted his sword high so all there might see its immaculate shine. Cyric had fled, the lion was dead; Ashhur had not abandoned them just yet.

Valessa did not know what to expect as she exited the shadow portal. She could barely think through the pain that filled her. Stumbling out, she fell to knees that became her arms, then her hands, then back again to her knees. Her form kept fighting, twisting, and she could barely remember who she once was. Her eyes opened, and she looked about. They were in rolling hills, the grass a pale yellow. Glancing behind her, she saw a river.

“The Wedge?” she asked. Was that where he’d taken her?

“It seems appropriate,” Cyric said. His voice was behind her, and with great effort, she turned to face him. Blood dripped from his hand, and more stained his robe from where the arrow remained embedded in his shoulder. His head dipped low, as if he were humbled for the first time in his life. Most frightening were his eyes: the wild, angry loathing that grew with every word he spoke.

“Is this not where we trap the monsters and other frightening creatures no longer of use to us?”

“Cyric?” Valessa asked, struggling to stand. She felt herself coming together, and pale skin started to form across the shadow that was her. “What are you doing?”

“Ashhur has stolen away my victory, but the blame is mine. Karak does not bestow mercy on those who deserve punishment.”

He lifted his hand, and from the center of his bleeding palm she saw stars swirling together amid a black void. And then the pain hit. It was different than when the light of Darius’s sword or Jerico’s shield touched her. That burned from the outside, dissolving away at her being. This was so, so much worse. She felt the very center of her soul cracking from within, her limbs shaking, her mind breaking into pieces as the very substance holding her together was taken away.