David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

He scooped out a tiny bit of ash and sprinkled it over his face. The magic of the mask took hold, grabbing the ash and spreading it out like a hazy shield. He was a phantom, an ill omen, and he would have the priests and paladins of Karak fear his visage before they died.

“They travel in larger groups with each passing day,” Deathmask said as he resealed the pouch. “If we kill enough priests, their patrols will weaken. Perhaps then we can stir the revolt that is aching to erupt.”

“They always have the Lionsguard,” Veliana said. She nodded toward a group of seven men marching down the street. They wore the official armor of the Mordan guard, but instead of polished gold breastplates and red tunics, they wore the white skull of a lion over their gray steel. Within days of capture, all the armor pieces had been painstakingly stripped of their golden sheen, dulling them down, removing all traces of former glory and leadership.

Now there was only Melorak, puppet of the dark god.

“The Lionsguard were recruited from Mordeina,” Deathmask insisted. “Once they realize no one holds their chains, they should break free.”

“Are you so sure?” Veliana asked, glancing at him with a mischievous smile on her face.

“Mostly,” Deathmask said, grinning back.

“Leave one alive for me then,” she said, drawing her other dagger. “We'll see just how fanatical their faith is.”

The streets still bustled with plenty of activity. It was that general chaos they needed to carry out their attacks. They waited until they saw a patrol marching through the center of the street, four Lionsguard and two priests of Karak.

“Take out the guards,” Deathmask said, rubbing his hands together. “The priests are mine.”

“Do it fast,” Veliana said. She watched the patrol's approach, counted to five, then leapt into the air, a dagger in each hand. A man and his wife spotted her attack, but instead of calling warning they shouted curses to the patrol. Veliana grinned as she fell, thankful for the added distraction. Their heads turned toward the shouting couple, they were unprepared for the vicious woman that fell atop them, her daggers stabbing and her feet kicking. She slashed open one guard's throat, spun about, and buried her blades into the back of the second.

Before the priests could cast a spell, twin projectiles of fire flew from the window, each the size of a fist. They struck the priests and exploded, bathing their bodies in black flame. Their pain-filled screams filled the street. The two remaining guards swung with their swords, but they were poorly trained, no challenge for Veliana's masterful daggerwork. She kept shifting, keeping one guard in front of the other so they could not work as a team. When the first thrust with his sword, she slipped aside, smacked the blade away with her dagger, and then rushed in. Her whole body slammed against the guard. Tip after tip of her dagger thrust through the creases in his armor. Blood poured from his neck, shoulders, and arms as he collapsed, his life bleeding out upon the ground.

She expected the last guard to flee, or call for help. Instead he rushed on, seemingly not caring if he died. Veliana felt her stomach knot as she danced about and kicked the back of his knees. As he tumbled down, another bolt of fire flew from the window. It burst around the guard's breastplate, charring flesh but not killing. Veliana rolled him over, stabbed her dagger deep into his shoulder, and then thrust her face to within inches of his.

“Whom do you serve?” she asked.

“I serve the lion,” he said. Blood stained his teeth, and his voice was strained.

“What of your people?” she asked, trusting Deathmask to warn her if reinforcements arrived.

“My people?” the Lionsguard asked. “Karak’s…followers. Those are my people.”

The girl's stomach tightened. Not the faintest hint of a lie in those eyes. Religious fanaticism had taken over. There was no man left in that armor. She sliced his throat and left him to die. Standing up, she noticed over a hundred people had gathered around, watching their brutal, efficient work. She tried to read them, but was unsure. Too many looks of fear, worry, and sorrow.

She ran to the other side of the street, away from Deathmask, and catapulted herself up to the rooftops. Soldiers were finally arriving, their weapons drawn and waving uselessly about the air. As she ran, the people shouted at them, and her lips curled into a smile at what she heard.

“The Ghost will get you,” they shouted. “Him and his Blade!”

So she was the Blade? That was a good nickname. She could settle for that.

Running her zigzag pattern, she went from roof to street to roof, to where ‘the Ghost’ waited.

T he discussion soured quickly, for each had reached the same conclusion.

“The Lionsguard are so fanatical they might as well be hypnotized,” Veliana said, yanking off her boots. She let out a little moan as she dipped her feet into a small kettle filled with water. With a brush of his fingers, Deathmask warmed the water and made it bubble.

“Such a meager use for my amazing talents,” he said, removing the cloth from his face and tucking it into a pocket of his robe.

“There could be no greater use for your talents than making me happy,” she said, her eyes closed. Glancing over her thin body with its tight, catlike muscles, Deathmask chuckled.

“Perhaps you're right,” he said.

“About what?” she asked, opening her good eye.

“The Lionsguard,” Deathmask said. “What else? But I watched that last guard attack you, even though all others were dead. Not the slightest hesitation. Hypnotization may not be far from the truth. Even trained soldiers will hesitate when they know their death is at hand.”

“What about a spell?” Veliana asked, closing her eye and settling deeper into her chair. They were inside what had become their home, a modest but well furnished abode that had most likely belonged to a general, or similarly high ranking soldier of Mordeina's army. To their knowledge, that army was still heading east, joined with troops of Neldar to try and retake Veldaren and close the portal through which hundreds of war demons had flooded into Dezrel.

“A spell?” Deathmask asked. “As in, a spell forcing them to worship Karak and serve as a perfect, obedient soldier? Seems a little much. Any time a city is conquered, there are always hundreds of rats willing to show up and grab a slice of power in the newly established order.”

“Rats run when faced with death,” Veliana said. “Something else is going on here. If we're to have any hope of freeing this city, Melorak needs to die. You know that.”

The man groaned and rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

“Yes,” he said. “I know. But you've seen him fight, as have I. He sent Dieredon running like a little girl, and he killed Haern the Watcher as if he were an ant. And don’t forget, he beat the two of us back with a single spell.”

“Then we don't fight him,” she said. “Not fair. That's not us. But he sleeps. He eats. He breathes.”

“Not according to his followers,” Deathmask muttered.

“He's human,” Veliana said, her voice growing hard. “And if he's human, he can be killed. We've always boasted we can kill any man alive. Are you ready to take that back now?”

Deathmask walked over to the window. It was dark now. The streets were empty but for the hundreds of patrols. Every day they killed members of the Lionsguard, as well as priests and the occasional dark paladin. Every night, it seemed twice that number joined the patrols. They were recruiting from the populace like mad, and not just soldiers. Priests as well. Paladins, too.

“Let's say you're right,” Deathmask said, turning to face her. “Now what?”